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"A'Becket" and " Cromwell n were so favorably received by the Press and 

coynmended at the time in lehalf of the Sanitary Commission, by 

President Li?icoin, Secretaries Seward, Chase, Stanton, 

a?id Wells, Rev. Dr. Bellows, a?id the Poets Pitz 

Gree?i Halleck, Bryant, Morris, Willis, and 

Lewis Gaylord Clark, that a reprint 

may not be unacceptable. 







June i, 1887. 




Cromwell ; - 1 

Thomas A'Becket . 1 

Canonicus 7 


To Dear Mother 57 

Ox Mother's Death 57 

The Shefherd 58 

Lincoln's Act of Freedom ; 59 

Hamilton 60 

In apoleon and Hamtlton 62 

Sonnet — " Contentment " e 62 

Sonnet— To Grief . 63 

To my Aunt, Susan A. Gibbes 64 

The Buckwheat Flower 64 

To Mary L 65 

To Miss , A Fair Pianist 68 

To 68 

To Miss J. L 69 

The Brook 69 

On the Consecration of "St. Ann's" Church, Morris- 

IANA 71 

The Hudson Riyer 71 

Sonnet — Faith 72 

Sonnet — To the Oak 73 

To 1 73 

To Elizabeth, October, 1842 74 




To Elizabeth, April, 1843 74 

To Elizabeth 75 

True Love 75 

To a Very Dear Friend 76 

To 70 

To Care Oppressing a Dear Friend 77 

To E. S. N 77 

To the Atheist 78 

The Old Man to his Wife 78 

To E. S. N '. r 79 

To E. S. N 79 

To a Cloud 80 

To E 81 

" St. Paul's " 62 

To Mrs. George L. Schuyler 82 

To . ,. ,.., 83 

To an Ever Gay Friend 84 

To E. S. N 84 

Fair Woman's Smiles 85 

To a Brook , 85 

The Minstrel 86 

Written in a Volume 87 

On Weir's Painting, West Polnt 83 

On the Painting in Chancel of West Point Chapel . . 88 

To Elizabeth 89 

To Elizabeth . , 89 

To Cousin Eliza Schuyler. . . 90 

To Elizabeth 91 

To Elizabeth 91 

To E 92 

Christmas 93 

Sonnet 94 

To my Eldest Son 95 

Antietam 95 

Ciiancellorsville 97 

Gettysburg 99 

To E 101 

A Legend of the Rhine 101 

To E. S. N 103 



To a Cloud 104 

To E. S. H 104 

To 104 

Sonnet 105 

To Emma 106 

Zenobia 107 

To E 108 

The Troubled Spirit's Song-. . . 109 

To Elizabeth 110 

On Laurens Hamilton Ill 

On My Brother Laurens Ill 

To-Night 112 

To E 113 

Disappointment 113 

To a Storm 114 

The Walnut-Tree 114 

Dying Child to her Mother 115 

To Mrs. Susan A. Gibbes 110 

To 117 

To 117 

To 118 

To E 118 

To 119 

To 120 

" The Death Blast" 121 

To Julia S 122 

On Our Mary , 123 

To 123 

On Leaving my Country Home for City Labor 124 

" The Frolicsome Parson " 125 

Zion Meetln'-'Ouse 129 

To General Grant 131 

Saratoga 132 



At length the world begins to understand what an honest, earnest, 
Grod-fearing man Oliver Cromwell was. 

Royalist writers have dwelt much upon his low origin and the humble 
pursuits of his early life. He had no occasion to blush for his pedigree. 
His father, Robert Cromwell, having married Elizabeth Steward, pur- 
chased an establishment which had been used as a brewery. 

A few years after this he died, leaving a young family to the care of 
their mother, who, by her skill and industry, not only provided funds to 
support her family in a respectable station, but even to supply her 
daughters with such fortunes as recommended them to suitable marriages. 

This estimable lady, like Charles the First, was descended from Alexan- 
der, Lord High Steward of Scotland, and thus they were cousins in the 
eighth or ninth degree. 

Born at Huntington, on the 25th day of April, 1599, and soon the only 
survivor of three sons, Oliver became a great favorite with his mother, 
who, though a woman of excellent sense, was of a too indulgent temper. 

" The love of truth," says a writer of his day, "will not permit us to 
extol either the docility of his temper or the literary triumphs of his 
genius — while at school, he being described as 'playfull and obstinate.' M 

Hinchinbrooke House, the seat of his uncle, Sir Oliver Cromwell, was 
generally one of the resting places of the royal family when on their 
journey from Scotland to the English capital. 

In the year 1603, King James, accompanied by his young son Charles, 
then Duke of York, afterward King Charles the First, paid a visit to Sir 
Oliver Cromwell, by whom they were entertained in the most sumptuous 

Charles and young Oliver disagreed, and in a scuffle young Oliver 
drew blood from the royal nose. Sir Oliver reproved his nephew, when, 
it is related, King James rejoined — "Nay, nay, it will teach the boy to 
respect the rights of his subjects." 

Milton, the immortal poet, who knew him well, does not ascribe to 
him high accomplishments in literature. Bishop Burnet says, "he had 
no foreign language, and but a little Latin." 

He remained but about half the required term at the University, and 
was then sent to London to attend to the study of the law at Lincoln's 
Inn, " but making nothing of it," he soon returned home 


Sir Philip Warwick, no nncandid judge of his manhood, gives a far 
from flattering account of his earlier days, but says: "After a time ho 
became converted, and declared himself ready to make restitution unto any 
man who would accuse him or whom he could accuse himself to have 
wronged. Soon thereafter he joined himself to men of his own temper who 
pretended unto transports and revelations." 

Residing at Saint Ives, he attended" the Established Church, and was 
intrusted with the civil business of the parish, but was not on good terms 
with the clergy. 

Having completed his twenty-first year, he married Elizabeth, the 
daughter of Sir James Bouchier, of Essex, by whom he received a consider- 
able addition to his fortune and regained the affection of his uncle, Sir 
Oliver, and his relations the Hampdens and Barringtons, whom he had 
alienated by his thoughtless or undutiful conduct. 

The next seven years of his life we can learn but little of, except that 
he became very rigid in his manners and devoted much time to religious 
duties. His house was ever open to the Xon- conformist ministers, whose 
consciences did not permit them to comply with the ritual of the Estab- 
lished Church. He preached in support of their principles and joined them 
frequently in public prayer. 

This paved the way for his popularity at Huntington, and soon pro- 
cured him the honor of representing that borough in the third Parliament 
of Charles the First. Milton says, " That being now arrived to a mature and 
ripe age, all which time he spent as a private person, noted for nothing 
so much as the culture of pure religion and an integrity of life, he was 
grown rich at home and had enlarged his hopes, relying upon G-od and a 
great soul in a quiet bosom for any, the most exalted times." 

In his domestic life he was happy. His affection for his wife and 
family, being marked and tender, was by them heartily returned. 

. He was always active when matters of religion were brought before 
Parliament, and his course at an early day shows the bias which his 
mind had taken and the ground on which his opposition to Government 
was thenceforth to be maintained. 

Sir Philip Warwick describes his appearance in Parliament in 1640, 
"as untidy in his dress, his stature of a good size, his countenance full 
and reddish, his voice sharp and untunable, but his eloquence full of 

Discontent with Charles's administration of the Government soon lead- 
ing to overt acts, we find Cromwell, at the age of 4;), on the side of the 
people, at which period, in 1G42, the play opens. 




Oliver Cromwell, Commoner, General, then Protector, 

Ireton, \ 

Ingoldsby, I His sons-in-law. 

Fleetwood, ) 

DesborouGh, his brother-in-law. £ 

Hampden, [• His friends. : < 

Hollis, ) f 

Oliver and Richard, Cromwell's sons. 

General Lambert, his friend. 

Gentlemen of Norfolk, Suffolk, Hertford, Essex 

Whitlocke, Whally, Lenthal. 

Bradshaw, Harrison, Martin, Grimshawe, Ludlow. 

Ashe, Allen. 

Sir Harry Yane, Colonel Oakey, Sir Arthur Hazelrigg. 

Mr. Love and Mr. Peet, Rich, Staines, Watson. 

Major Salloway, Carew, Lisle. 

Lord Mayor of London. 

Ambassadors from France and Spain. 

Colonel Jephson, Ashe, Sir Charles Pack. 


Quaker Fox, a great merchant. 


King Charles. \ 

Reginald Hastings, >■ His friends. 

and others, ) 

Lady Cromwell, wife of Cromwell. 
Lady Elizabeth Cromwell, his daughter. 
Lady Alice Lambert, wife of General Lambert. 
Patience, an attendant. 
Tradesmen, Citizens, and Soldiers. 

Scene — England, mostly in London — a. d. 1642-1 G5a 



A street in London. 

Citizens enter from opposite sides* 


Which way, my friend ? 


Unto the Commons. 

What for ? 



To seek redress. 


To seek redress for what ? The last taxes drained our 
purses, robbed us and ours of our homes — why needs 
our King more moneys ? — we have no wars. 


The Pope, who rules this wife that rules 
Our King, exacts new tributes. 


Down with the Pope ! if needs must be, 
The Queen ! 



And the King too ! 


Nay, nay, we love the King ! he's Stuart blood! 
Let's to the Commons ! [Exeunt 

The House of Commons. 

Pym, rising. 
Fellow- Commoners of England ! her bulwark 
And her boast, with love and loyalty to King Charles 
I rise — if sad my visage, sorrow is at my heart — 
To state that he would violate all his bonds 
Demanding further supplies of us. 


And I deny that we should grant 
Them to him. At the very outset of his reign, 
More a Papist than a Puritan at heart, 
Charging that we, his people, sparingly doled out our 

He, in defiance of all law, his firs" Parliament dissolved. 
A second be convoked, but finding that 
Still more intractable, its speedy dissolution 
Was its fate; and he, without the show 
Of legal right, fresh taxes raised, and the chiefs 
Of the opposition into the cells of felons threw. 
Is this the meed of patriots? 


My friends, we may not yield to these demands ; 
The Star-Chamber we have swept away, 
The High Commission, and the Council of York. 
Thomas Wentworth, late Earl of Strafford, has expiated 


His great crimes by axe and block ; 

Laud is immured in yonder Tower ; 

The Lord Keeper finds refuge in a foreign land ; 

And King Charles has bound himself never 

To adjourn, dissolve, or prorogue this Parliament, 

Which here doth meet, without its own consent, 

To serve its God, its country, and its King ! 


Ay, its wronged King! — robbed of age-founcled 
Hereditary rights ! He loves his country. 


Indeed ! then now what mean these discontents 

In Ireland ? The Rebellion of the Roman Catholics 

In Ulster has been planned nearer home. 

Our Queen one of that faith, our King of no faith 

At all, though Protestant avowed. 


If Church and King no reverence command, 
In gentle courtesy leave our fair Queen at peace. 
Heed ye well, that when the Church shall fall, then falls 
the State. 

Oeomwell enters and takes his seat on L. II., nearest foot- 


ceomwell, aside. 
Two fierce and eager factions it would seem, 
And nearly matched. Be the King wise and true, 
All will be well with him and his tried friends, 
While we, perforce, must seek our homes in other climes. 
But he will fail, the people's rights must triumph, 
And henceforth two great parties in this realm 


Shall ever contend for the mastery. 


I move that a remonstrance be presented 

To the King, enumerating all the faults 

Of his administration, expressing the distrust 

With which his policy is still regarded 

By the people, and their inability 

To endure fresh taxes — but let it be expressed 

In love and true allegiance. 


I second this. 

cromwell, aside. 
My thoughts ! my sentiments ! tho' gemmed in eloquence. 
The current of events I'll note, and use them 
As befits me. 


The motion ye have heard. 
All in its favor rise — 

\All rise except Royalists. 
'Tis carried — by eleven votes majority. 


His Majesty promises well ; but yestere'en 
Falkland, Hyde, and Colepepper were invited 
To become the confidential advisers 
Of the Crown. 


We'll see how he will keep his promises. 
But lo ! whom have we here ? 

Enter the Attorney- General and the Sergeant-at-Arms. 


What would the Attorney-General of the realm, 
Of England's Commoners? 



Our Liege commands that I do impeach 
Before the House of Lords — Lord Kimbolton, 
Pym, Hollis, Hampden, Hazelrig, and Strode, 
Commoners of England, far high treason. 

Great commotion.'] Sir ! sir ! [From several voices, 

Cromwell, rising and advancing . 

Do I hear aright ! The King would impeach 

These gentlemen ? 


You do — the Sergeant-at-Arms, 

In the King's name, demands of the House 

The persons of these six gentlemen. 


By your leave, we will consult 
On this. You may retire. [Exit Attorney- General. 

My friends, this is too true. 

* Here are private lines, just borne to me, 
Which counsel that you instantly consult 
Your safety. The King himself approaches 
With an armed band. 

Great outcry.'] The King ! the King ! 

[From several voices. 


We'll but retire till the whirlwind's past, 
And then prepare for storms — where is the treason now ? 


'Twerc well — retire. [Exeunt six members. 

Aside.'] Oh, Thou ! to whom, in humble, heart-felt fealty 

* Prom the Countess of Carlisle, sister to . Northumberland. — Hume. 



I knelt in early youth ; unto whose helping hand 
I've trusting clung in manhood's stormy hours, 
Nerve me with lion's strength, that singly I may brave 
My country's foe, and save her from this tyranny. 

Turning to Commoners.] 
Be not dismayed, my friends. He's but a man, 
Like one of us. Now must we prove unto the wide world 
For every age — that steadfast, true, God-serving hearts 
Are never left to fall. Hark ! they do come. 

King Chakles enters tcith armed attendants, 


Where are those whom I would impeach ? 

cromwell, advancing. 

In safety. Sire. 

How so ? 


God keeps them, Sir. 
Charles, aside. 

*We battled in our youth, and he o'ermastered me, 
Must we now war in onr age till he o'erpowers me ? 

cromwell, advancing. 
My Liege and royal kinsman, is this nobly done ? 
The forest's m march, royalty's best type, 
Singly pursues his prey, never in troops. 


Cromwell, I am — 

*King James paid a visit to Sir Oliver Cromwell at Hinchinbrooke 
House, in September, 1G04:, taking with him his son Charles, when lie and 
the future Protector disagreed, and Oliver so little regarded the dignity 
of his uncle's royal visitant, that he made the roj~al blood flow in copious 
streams from the Prince's nuse. — " CromwtU and his Times. 1 '' 



My King, whose surest safeguard 
Is his people's love, and that he best secures — 


His office. 


Cromwell, you are our kinsman ; 

cromwell (bowing), aside. 

The Sheriff's deputy would fulfil 

My Liege, I'm, as you know, 
But a plain country gentleman, not used 
To courtly phrases, nor the arts that cloak 
The thoughts of courtiers. I would counsel 
You in love, and beg you'd learn of nature, 
And behold how the majestic monarch 
Of the mount maintains his proud estate, 
Spreading afar his roots in o-enial soil. 
He on his own strength relies for vigor 
To sustain his outstretched arms. 

He never seeks 
From arid rocks sustenance to imbibe, 
Else would his branches die, his foliage fall ! 
The source of all your strength, your people's purse, 
Is well-nigh drained — although their cup of loyalty 
Still to the very b:im is full. Deem me not rude, 
But banish this hired troop — 'tis a rough setting, 
And out of keeping with your royal heart, 
Whose richest casket is your people's love. 


I thank you, Cromwell, for this truthfulness, 
Though verily it grates ; for I have feasted 
On flattery so long, that frankness 


Is a new dish and out of course. I would 
That you were with me, not against me. 


So am I, and would ever be, reigned you yourself, 
Not food for parasites, who'd sap your strength, 
Your very life, for self-advancement. 


I would those gentlemen would wait on us. 
Counsel this, in love to us, and come with them ; 
We should together prop up the Stuart House, 
Sprung from the self-same source— 

I would consult with you. 


Our consultation were a futile act, 
Old counsellors still about you. 


But come, though 
I'll not yield in this. 

\JExit Charles and attendants. 


There goes a noble heart, but so bewitched, 
And so long trained in course of fell deceit, 
That even I dare not trust him, lie is 

So hackneyed in these Romish ways. 

I'll see my friends and serve them if I can, 
Save them I'm sure to. do — 

For this have I resolved t 
Here has Charles wrecked all hopes, all chances 
Of success. Commoners of England ! now assert 


Your rights. Compliance to his will ceases 
To be a virtue. 

Each to his home 
In London ; our fortress that, well garrisoned 
With tried and loving hearts ; urge them with prayer 
True succor to entreat ; and legions from the Lord 
Will join our ranks. Proclaim aloud throughout the land 
Unto the wide, wide world, 

"That where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is Liberty.'' 
We are but as one man in this, I believe — - 
Is it not so ? 

All exclaim, retiring, 

But one ! but one ! 

cromwell, going out. 

Let's on ! 
Where are the friends thou hadst, 
My King, but one short hour ago ? 
This thy last act has made each man thy foe ! [Exit. 

Street in London. 
Ptm, Hampden, cm<7 Hollis, stand on one side ; deputations 
from various trades pass, exclaiming, " Privileges of 
Parliament ! Privileges of Parliament !" 


It all works well. The Mercers these! 
And here another comes ! 


The Porters these ! — a God-fearing, honest 
Class ! Another yet ! 



The Apprentices ! bold and reckless dare-devils 
Are these, but honest as the sun. 


Stand ye apart — the King ! [ They retire one side. 

The Beggars come 

The other way — we'll note their salutation 

As they meet him. 

King Charles enters with attendants, and they pass on. 
Deputation of Beggars pass, exclaiming, " Privileges 
of Parliament !" and one calls, as they 2 )ass ou h To 
your tents, O Israel !* 


Wormwood to you, my King ! 
My pity for you drowns your wrongs to me. 
This is Cromwell's bouse. We must with him consult ; 
Long have I known him ; he is of all 
" The man for the times," in spite 
Of his rough exterior. If he lives, he'll be 
The foremost man of every age. [Meeunt. 

Interior of CrouiwelFs House. 

Cromwell, alone, strides across the stage. 
This fire at my heart o'erheats my brain ! 
Would I could piny the woman, and in tears 
Weep out my rage — no ! no ! they would but scald 

* The words employed by the mutinous Israelites when they abandoned 
Rehoboam, their rash and ill-counselled sovereign. — Hume. — Clarendon. 


My furrowed cheeks, and sear with life-long scars. 
* * * * * 

To think that men so gentle and so pure, 

So elevate in nature, that they look 

On earthly pride and pomp, as shines the sun 

Upon tins tinselled scene, mere work of men's weak hands. 

Should be thus hunted down like wolves, 

While, lamb-like, spite of all their wrongs, 

They are bleating out their love for him, 

And urging gentle treatment of their tyrant King. 

lady cromwell enters. 

My Lord, my loving Lord ! what moves you thus ? 


My dearest wife, thy love ever was the brook 
Whereat I slaked my thirst and cooled 
My fevered brow. By nature I was never gentle : 
Rough and uncouth in form, unhammered iron 
Both my heart and hand — I am overwrought to-day ; 
But now thou comest, I shall grow calm and cool, 
For you can mould me as you will, dear love. 


But what is this, my Lord ? 


Hast thou not heard, how, mid the hot debate 

Upon his new demands, — Pym, Hampden, 

Hollis, and our friends, urging a mild remonstrance 

To his will and wishes, — first there comes 

A message from the King, that they should be impeached, 

And then a secret letter sent to me, 

Informing that in person he would seek them, 

Of which I instantly advised. 


Scarce had the Attorney left the Commons, when the 

Forgetful of all promises, all pledges, 
Forgetful of his honor as a man, 
Forgetful of the sacred office of a king, 
And all its great attendants, rushed in 
With a rude band of hired menials, 
And did demand the persons of these gentlemen ! 


You did not yield them up ? 


No, but I told him 
That God kept them, as He ever does the just ; 
That He would preserve them. 


Spake you thus unto the King, my Lord ? 


I did ; in what is he more than mortal like us ? 


His power ! 


He has no power now. He had 
Until this hour; till now the Commons inclined 
To him, despite of all their wrongs. 
But this last act awoke the slumbering fires 
At their hearts ; the ebullitions of their rage 
Burst forth as the long smothered volcano's flames, 
And swallowed all things up. The streets of London 
Are with hot lava filled ; none but spirits kindred 
To them may safely sojourn there. 

Enter Pym, Hampden, and Hollis. 
Gentlemen, you're welcome, very welcome ! Here 


For a time you're safe ! [Shouts heard.] 

What means this outcry 
And this violence ? 


Our wrongs have taken voice : 
All London is aroused. 


And we must seek 
How best to quell this turbulence. 


True, true ! 
It were not well that it should spend itself; 
We yet may need some little fire to light 
Us on our way. Hampden, we have too tamely borne 
Our wrongs, more like weak children, 'neath the brutal 

Of some tyrant guardian, than the people's friends, 
Intrusted with the care of their dearest rights. 
Strike not these shouts with leaden weight upon your 

Upbraiding as they fall ? 


They do ; and we must act 
For them, if Charles dissolves not our Parliament. 

cromwell, much excited. 
Dissolve this Parliament ! He shall tear 
This form limb from limb. 
Till that the weak pulsation of this heart 
Shall be sole sign that ever it was mortal, 
Ere he shall dare do that ! We have been too tame ! 

* ♦ # * * * 

I have advised that Parliament seize the town of Hull, 


Where there is now a rnaorazine of arms ; 

• ? 

That Goring, at Portsmouth, be required 
To obey no commands but theirs ; 
And instant arming of the Londoners 
Take place. That Essex be made General 
Of Parliament — but here is Ireton! 
Iretois" enters.] What news, my son ? 


The people all enraged, the King has gone 
To York, whither the nobility, in crowds, 
Do follow him. 


Nobility ! 
The tinselled nobles follow him. He 
Is their only hope. I would he had them all ; 
Their touch but taints ; 
The true nobility are ours ! What more ? 


Essex is made General of the Parliamentary forces, 
And news is just received that Charles has raised 
His standard at Nottingham. 


'Tis well ! England is born again ! 
After a slumber of six hundred years,* 
The Anglo-Saxon shall awake to life ! 
Where was thy guardian angel, treacherous King,f 
When thou compelled st that small b;md 
Of peaceful spirits who had embarked 
For the new world to disembark, and, toiling, here, 
Drag out a mean existence, when plenty, 
Peace, virtue, Eeligion, there were free, 
As God first made them unto all mankind ? 
Since thou wouldst have me great, thou must not murmur 
* A'Becket/s murder. f 1G34. 


That thou madest me so. Though I may never tread 
New England's virgin soil — bear through her wondrous 

The banner of the Lord — teach the Red Man 
That his Great Spirit is ours — that we are but one — 
I'll sow such seeds that ages yet unborn, 
Throughout the world, shall bless the day 
Cromwell from peaceful intents was torn, 
And forced to be a Man. 

But much there is to do ; 
King Charles's army will be in bright plumage decked ; 
Rupert is a master-spirit in the charge, — 
He has trained troops, while we have, at best, 
A rabble crew, will never stand the onset 
Of the foe! 

Gentlemen, do you each to your 
Several homes. Hollis, in London, enroll 
The stoutest artisans of our faith. 
Pym, there are many kindred spirits will follow 
You where fiercest is the fight ; drill them 
Into strict obedience, for a steady front 
Is what we most shall need. Hampden, my friend, 
At your own home there are at least a thousand 
True and steadfast hearts ; hasten you thither, 
And prepare them all, and let each and every man 
Account himself the Lord's. Ireton will to his friends, 
And raise a troop of horse; while I'll to Ely, 
And arouse all mine. * * * 

Pardon me, gentlemen, 
In counselling thus the choicest spirits 
Of the land, — myself an humble citizen, 
Though servitor of God, — I do presume too much. 


We came not, Cromwell, for honeyed words, 


But counsel, and you counsel give, — such counsel 
As we sought. The whirlwind bows all trees 
Of weaker growth ; old England's oak still holds 
His head erect, an emblem for us all. 
Be thou that oak ! 


Then since you've sought from me, let us, 
Each and all, distrustful of his single strength, 
Seek from our God His guidance and support ; 
And with a pledge, that, as we shall strive 
But for our England's honor and supremacy, 
So when her peoples rights are well secured, 
We'll lay aside our arms. 

[Exeunt Pym, Hampden, and Hollis. 
Enter, on opposite side, his daughter Elizabeth, son 

Oliver, and Lady Lambert. 
My own fair daughter and my gallant son ; 
And thou ! most lovely Lady Lambert, dost thou brave 
This scene, venturing through London's waves tem- 
To see how fiercely they are chafing here? 

[Striking his breast. 
My children dear, ever does kind Heaven send 
Its comforts with its cares. 


My husband absent, 
It were biit fitting that his glory's partner 
Should learn what griefs assail our cause, 
That she might timely forewarn him in words ^ 

Of gentlest love, not let them rudely burst 
Upon his ear, too oft assailed already ; 
Emboldened by these thoughts, your most fair daughter, 
Venus-like, ushered me to the light of day, 
Thou England's Sun! 



Grace in your speech, no less 
Than in your form ! — henceforth shall Cromwell 
E'er in heaviest hours welcome you, 
Dearest lady, amidst these his best counsellors 
(As such, my wife and children ever proudly owned). 
My son, it seems the will and pleasure 
Of the Lord that I, who his servitor 
So long have been, should take an active, 
It may be, foremost part with my long well-tried friends 
In England's cause. 


Father, the King ! 


Reigns, son, but for himself. 
He doth forget the trust God hath reposed in him, 
Thus choosing him His Vicegerent. Go you with Ireton, 
Your brother now— a father in my absence he will be 
To you. Ireton ! my eldest son, — the hope and love 
Of manhood's earliest hours, the pride of present years, 
And promise of my age, — I do intrust to you ; 
Make him a soldier, but a soldier in the Lord ; 
A warrior like yourself, I ask no more ; 
Now take him with you, and enroll your horse. 


Father, it shall be so. 


Come, Ireton, I am eager 
For the fight ; I'll not disgrace my lineage 
Or my name. 


Well said, my son, may Heaven be with you. 



Hark ! " Cromwell" fills the air as well as gilds the walls ; 

All London's streets proclaim the people's will, 

And call to arms. [Exeunt Ireton and young Oliver. 


Not theirs, but God's ! 
His high behest I must, I will obey. [Exit Cromwell. 


dearest Lady ! what a rived heart is mine ; 

My duty weighed against my love. I may not pray 
For either cause. 


Cheer thee, dear girl ! Your father 
Is no foe unto the King, but unto his dishonor. 


Think you that he will hearken to our love ? 


You are as nobly born as this Young Charles, 
But custom sanctions not an honorable love 
Between the prince and subject. 


Sweet friend, 
That is the worm that gnaws ! No other 
Ever could be mine, — none other would Charles have ; 
He loves me purely, worships me as though 

1 were a saint from Heaven. 


I pray thee, think no more of it, 
Insatiate — it is man's way — but satisfied — beware ! 
He is by birth a King ! They deem all creatures 
Made but for their pleasure and their will — ay, 


Even earth's fairest, such as thou, sweet girl. 

Beware ! beware ! [Exeunt. 


A Large Tent. — An Encampment. — Night — Table, Books, and Taper. 


Is this a dream, or dread reality ? 

Have those strange thoughts I dwelt on in my youth 

Thus taken form and shape ? or have I on visions 

So long feasted that my mind, o'erwrought, wanders 

Mid quicksands will my hopes ingulf? 

'Tis night ; no sound, save the trusty sentinel's tread, 

Who keeps his watch, humming some holy strain, 

And praying God to guard his earthly hopes 

As he shall guard His cause. 

It is no dream. 
A nation's wrongs have forced a nation's heart 
To burst the cerements of kingly love, 
And make a bold assertion of their lights ; 
Rights born of Heaven, conferred by God ; 
Not to be lightly or unvalued worn. 

Kneeling .] His hand I see in this — to whom I kneel 
In humble supplication for His aid, 
His counsel, and His care. A distant tread — 
A challenge — they have passed ; 
It is those valued friends I summoned here. 
1 summoned here! — Why would they make me first ? 
Essex and Fairfax are of nobler rank, 
Though not more nobly born. For am not I 
A kinsman of the King ? — might have been 
King myself! might have been king myself? 
I see no weird women on this heath : 


There are no spirits in the air, I know, 

To whisper this to me ! It is no whisper, 

Though it sounds as though 'twere thunder-born, 

And drowns my every thought but this : 

That I might have been king ! And so I might, 

As well as he who now doth wear the diadem : 

From Alexander, Lord High Steward of Scotland,* 

Both are sprung — Charles traces back through a long 

line of kings, 
His ancestor being the elder son ; while I 
Am scion of that noble house, descended 
Through my sainted mother, eleventh in succession 
From that Lord's third son, while Charles is but the 

From his eldest born. 
There glares the curse of primogeniture ! 
The times have changed, and so must human courses. 
I will be king — king in the service of the King of kings, 
And reign pre-eminent o'er the hearts of men. 
[Sinter several gentlemen escorted by the sentinel^] 
My friends. 


Cromwell, your messenger urged 
All haste, or we had not intruded on the night 
With the day's business. 


You're very welcome, 
And I thank you heartily. So long unused 
To every public charge, — my little knowledge 
Being but from books, — this glittering harness 
But uneasily fits, and, like an untutored steed, 
I must be trained to it. But now I learn 
That Lord Capel advances upon Cambridge 
* Xoble. 


With both horse and foot ; that many 

Of the old nobility are hastening up in arms. 

Aside.~\ I'll sound these gentlemen ! — 
"We must consider seriously, my friends, how acceptable 
" A service to the King ours would be, 
" To keep five whole counties in his obedience." 


Is there then hope of him ? 


There is always hope with life. Bad counsellors 
Are his curse. We must be a sheet-anchor 
To the State ; fast holding amid the gales 
That fiercely assail her now ; but see 
What honors, what rewards, the storm o'erpast, 
We then may justly claim for such true loyalty. 
" What troops are there in Essex now, who have 
" The honor and happiness of the King at heart ?" 


Three thousand ; two of stalwart hearts on foot, 
One thousand the best mounted in the land. 


I know your stables are most choicely filled ; 
Your riders are ? 


A God-fearing, prayerful, preachful set — 


In our cause chief elements of success. 
And yours of Suffolk ? 


Two thousand — all well-armed, brave artisans. 



A brawny race — I've met with them. And yours 
Of Hertford ? 


Three thousand and three hundred 
When all told — with most delicious voices 
And great prayers. 

cromwell, smiling. 
Less music shall we need, then. 
'Tis very well — for 'tis expensive, and all we save 
We gain. And how of Norfolk ? 


Jockeys in Norfolk, — 
Every man's a horse. Some fifteen hundred 
Chanting cherubs, with good steeds, 
And fifteen hundred well mounted as at their birth. 


You're pleasant, sir ! 


It is but pleasure that I've entered on- 
A game of chance — 'tis true, a boisterous game. 
The winner — who can tell ? 

cromwell, aside. 
'Tis a shrewd fellow — what does he mean ? 

Ironically.] Gentlemen, you deserve 

Much love and many honors from your King. 
Meet me here with your best speed, six days 
From this, with all the forces you can raise. 
Bring all your saints from Hertford, and Norfolk's 
Chanting cherubs ! [Exeunt Gentlemen. 

A saintly crew — I'll use them. 


Sentinel enters and hands paper s^\ 

What now ? from London ! from Hampden, too ? 

Heads.~\ " Spare nor goad nor spur, but speed to London ; 

Now the Commons sit in consultation 

Upon proposals made by the Lords in favor 

Of a peace. Haste, or our cause is lost " 

Lost ! Lost ! no, no ! thou noble spirit, tried friend, 
And truest gentleman that England boasts. 
No cause is lost, with Hampden on its side. 
God watches with the virtuous — they ne'er fail ; 
Though they may fall, 'tis but as sets the sun to-day 
To rise the brighter on to-morrow's morn. 

True virtue never fails 

My horse — my fleetest horse ! 

My Ironsides, an' you will 

General Lambert enter s.~\ Remain you in command, 
My trusty friend, for I must post to London. 
Read this — it is for thee alone ; observe 
The strictest discipline — religious exercises 
Thrice a day ; with purest sentiments inspire 
The men ; let them have no time for idle thoughts 
Or ribald jests. 

And this, the " Soldier's Bible,"* give to each, 
Where, from the Holy Scriptures, — the charters 
Of the liberties or ma^klnd, — selections 
Most appropriate may be found ; 
Thus may each daily say or sing 
The praises of his God. 

The morn now breaks, 
And I must speed away on matters of great moment 

* Cromwell had appropriate quotations made from the Holy Scriptures, 
printed upon a sheet folded into sixteen pages, a copy of which was given 
to every soldier under his command. 


To our cause — [Distant Reveille heard. 

" What is to do ? I know not what I would have, 
Though I know what I would not have." 


You have not rested now for some three nights ; 
Nature will be outworn — 


Good friend, my country calls ; 
I may not rest for many a night — 
Aside.] It may be never more. 
Farewell ! God speed you all. 

Lambert walks back towards the tent. Cromwell exits. 
Curtain falls slowly. 

End of Act I. 




Room in Cromwell's House. 

Lady Cromwell, Lady Alice Lambert, and Lady 
Elizabeth Cromwell, enter, 


Hark, how the shouts of a maddened populace 
Come like the surges of a raging sea, 
Lashe<J into fury by contending winds, 
Proclaiming some new-born wrongs heaped 
On their already overloaded backs ! My King, 
My King, why goad them unto frenzy ? 


The roar hath passed, 
And now falls on the ear as murmur 
Of a distant sea, subsiding into peace. 


Yes, lady mother, now notes of joy and voices 
Of glad welcome fill the air, as though 
Some mighty conqueror approached, laden 
With new-born honors. 


"Lis Pym they name, and Hampden, 
Cromwell's friends. Why do they rank him first ? 
Would we were safe upon New England's shore ! 
I dread this sudden greatness. My King ! my King ! 
Oh, thou art ill-advised ; thy gentle, true, 


And trusting nature is abused. Why cast 
You from you all would be your friends, 
And leap into this den ? Sweet Lady Alice, 
Where is now your lord ? Lambart has potent voice 
With this rude crowd. He should be here 
When Cromwell is away. 


It is thy Lord Cromwell's order he observes, 

That keeps him from the hearts that love him best. 

The Parliament sent him hence to raise 

Fresh troops, and he returns not till they summon him. 

But here are worthy gentlemen — 

Hampden, England's pearl, 
And Pym, the gorgeous ruby of the times. 

Hampden and Pym enter, saying. 

At your service, ladies. 



You're very welcome, gentlemen, for our woman fears 

Have magnified the noise in London's streets 

Into things terrible, and our timid hearts 

Beat quickly for those friends we know do brave 

The storms. When hast thou heard from my honored 

Lord ?— 
'Tis strange that I must question you of him, — 
I, who ne'er passed a day without his smiles, 
From that proud hour when first I called him 
Lord, till, leaving Nature's bright and lovely walks, 
We sought a home mid London's dreary walls. 


You may expect him ere the sun hath set ; 

Most urgent matters call him here. [ Giving letters. 


Sweet Lady Lambert, from your honored Lord, 
A trusty messenger these lines hath brought. 


My Lord ! my honored Lord ! — 


Most fair Elizabeth, thy smiles I woo 
To win me to forgetfulness. Would that I had 
A son, and he might win your love, that I might call 
You daughter — thou brightest jewel in our Cromwell's 


Kind Sir, I am not worthy of such praise, 
Far, far more honored than my poor deserts, 
By your o'er-estimate — 

[Cromwell enters. 
Bushes to Cromwell.] My father, my dear father ! 

cromwell salutes each. 
My child, my dearest child, my honored wife, 
Fair Lady Alice, — and my friends — 

[ Giving a hand to Hampden and Pym. 
My friends, ye are true friends 
Indeed, — thus, mid the many calls our country 
Makes, to offer solace to these o'ertasked hearts. 
Hampden, how idle are the glories of the world; 
How vain, illusory, the gifts which shine 
Most gorgeous to our view ! How rich in blessings 
Is that peaceful country life, where we had dwelt 
So long. How valued was the privilege granted us 
Of studying in great Nature's book, 
Written by God's own hand. I am already 
Sickening of this scene of turmoil and of strife, 
And envy even the untutored savage 


Who may roam at will, and worship the Great Spirit 
Unrestrained, in Nature's wondrous temples — 
His, his is freedom — there the soul may soar 
Where'er its Godlike nature bears it, 
And such adoration render as the spirit 
Feels, of essence like itself. 

'Tis not the material form 
That alone untrammelled makes us freemen ; 
But the immaterial sense that teaches us 
That we are heavenly born — that this life's 
But a pilgrimage. 


My dearest Lord, you think 
Too deeply ; you magnify our cares ! 
God gives us charges, but He gives us, too, 
Ability to fulfil them ; he praises best, 
And the best service renders, who loveth best 
Whatever is imposed by Him. There is 
Some occult blessing e'er in store, whatever our trials. 


True, my sweet comforter — my saint-like wife — 
Seeing letter in Lady Alice's hand, ioho starts.] 
Fair Lady Alice ! From your lord, I ween — 

How fares my friend ? 


Well as his friends could wish. 


Shouts heard.] Hampden, what mean these cheers ? 

hampden, going to window. 
Cheers for our friends — our true and steadfast friends. 
Unto the Lords' proposal for a peace, 


The Commons had well-nigh yielded ; 
For two long nights, an angry, hot debate 
Gave us but a slight majority. 


What ! are we, then, so weak in friends, 
Or were they overawed ? 


Uncertain of their strength ; 
And hearing Charles gathered fresh forces 
Every hour, many did quiver, while 
Some men quailed ! 


Brave hearts ! Why, they should tougher grow, 
Like steel, the more they are hammered on. 
This gives me new strength ! What said the Londoners 
To this ? 


They called them cowards, truants 
To the trust the people had reposed in them. 
Now, the foremost of our citizens do parade 
The streets with drums, and fifes, and martial music ; 
While banners flaunt the air ; and call 
Upon the populace to enroll in the defence of London. 


This, that daunts them, gives me new strength, 
Nerves me for mightier trials. I'll seek 
Their leaders, and inflame their hearts 
With the pure fires of Liberty ! 

This is no time 
For woman's fears ! Quivered and quailed, 

You said, when that their country's welfare 



Was at stake — [ Turning to his daughter . 

Why, I would offer up this, 
My dearest child, on Liberty's altar, 
For a sacrifice, and deem it cheaply bought, 
Though my heart writhed in agony at the deed ! 
Come, we'll unto our friends. 
Exeunt Ladies on one side.] 

[Cromwell, Pym, and Hampden exeunt on the other. 

Streets of London, at nightfall. — Popular Commotion. 


Down with these fickle Commoners, and give us men ! 


Give us those spirits dare assert our rights ! 


Men sprung from Nature ; not the tinselled forms 
That glisten, to dim at the mere touch of breath. 


Give us our Pym ! 


Our Hampden ! 


Our Hollis ! But here they come. 

Enter Pym, Hampden, and Hollis. 

Thanks, my friends, thanks ; this gives me hope ; 
For I had feared Peace had most truly rusted out 


Not only our arms, but hearts ; that our English valor, 

So famed, was gone. 

But twenty miles apart, for ten days the foes sought each 

The battle of Edgehill was fought ; and lie who was 
The conqueror, after a good night's repose, 
First left the field ! Essex retiring to Warwick 
With his carpet knights ; 

The King, with his show troops, too glad to escape 
A second fight, fell back on his old post 
At Banbury, leaving five thousand Englishmen 
On the field. This Rupert is a hot-headed 
And bold partisan — unequalled 
In the sudden and fierce onslaught ; — 
But there's, as yet, no general in the field. 


But there is in the Land. The man is born 
That shall be styled — 

"The best thing ever England did." 
Nurtured in peaceful arts, of stalwart form, 
Sustained in all his trials by his faith in God ; 
Looking on life, as written in His book, 
A scene of obligations must be filled 
By each in his due course ; not seeking 
How he may evade, to him, God's seeming stern, 
But justice-born commands. 


Cheers for Hampden, Hollis, Pym — 

Cromwell enters.] And Cromwell, too. 

Cheers for the people's friends. 


Thanks, thanks, my gentle friends. 



Thanks, thanks, ye noble hearts, no longer 
Would be slaves. 'Tis true, in loyalty you love 
Your King; but he's no King who violates 
All rights, all obligations, and forgets his royalty. 
For royalty is born of God, and to be honored, 
Must be worn as wears the Lord his attributes. 
Has not he raised his banner against you 
At Northampton? Has not Edgehill been fought, 
And Marston Moor ? The reeking wounds of thousands 
call from earth 
i For vengeance on their heads so ill advise, 
While hosts of departed spirits knock 
At Heaven's gate, witnesses from this dread scene ; 
I would not stir you up to rage by asking 
Of those dearest friends you've lost ; I would not wake 
The sleeping lion at your hearts by asking 
For your butchered young ! 

But, in Religion's name, 
I'd ask if 'tis ordained, expressed, 
Or even implied, that one man's wicked will 
Shall trample on a nation's rights ? I find 
No record of it in the Word of God, — 
The true authority for all man's acts. 
Some are there, who would have you yield tamely, 
Submissively; I tell you, no! You have a sacred trust, 
Untarnished to transmit to ages yet unborn. 
But let your work be in the spirit of the Lord ! 
Consider deeply, how high the trust that God 
Has given in endowing reason — likening 
To himself mere worms of earth. See how the world 
Has grown in temporal, since spiritual gifts 
To it were known ! The seed is sown, the culture 


By Heaven taught, the harvest's all your own. 
Your King has forced you into arms ; 
Fur years youVe tamely borne all your wrongs 
Granting supplies — for what ? that while you're poor 
He and his pampered menials might be rich. 
There is no halo hanging about his name ; 
Has England's glory ever been his aim ? 
Is there one single act, in all his long and peaceful reign, 
•Adorns the page of history ? No ! 
But his wilful violations of your rights 
Outnumber the sea-shore's sands! 
I would not urge you, friends, against your Kiug ; 
There's a divinity doth guard that name. 
But since this Charles has raised his standard 
Against his people and their Heaven-born rights, 
He has become no more than their common foe. 
When he is mindful of his proud estate, 
Transmitted to him through a line of kings, 
Banishes from his side the assassins of England's honor, 
He will be in his people's hearts enthroned, 
And there more proudly gemmed than e'er was 
Egypt's queen; religions hosts Ids never-sleeping guard, 
So long as virtue shines his diaclem. 
In the mean time, preparawe for the worst; 
Forewarned, hereafter we mu4 be found forearmed. 
* I must to the held and face this " people's foe." [Exeunt. 


Room in Cromwell's House — Morning. 

Lady Cromwell, Lady Lambert, and Lady Elizabeth 
at a table, sewing. Patience, an attendant. 


Good Patience, thou hast brought no news to-day. 
Go hearken what the gossips say below. 

[Exit Patience. 
Dear Lady Alice and my fair daughter, 
The one the bride of Lambert — you our Cromwell's pride, 
There is sad news to-day ! Charles and his friends 
Are carrying all before them in the west. 
At Stratton they have overcome our Stamford ; 
At Lawnsdown, too, with dreadful loss of life, 
The Royalists gained the victory ; and Bristol, 
Second city in the land, in riches and in greatness, 
Has been taken. 


My Lord— 


Is safe with Essex— [to Elizabeth] where your father is/ 


My father ! mine's a divided interest. 

Which father do I mean — my source and spring of life, 

Or him, my source of hope, love, happiness, — 

The father of my Charles ? Oh, dreadful day 

That ever I was born to know such misery! 



Who comes ? 

Pym and Hampden enter.] 


Your friends and servitors. 


What news? 


None but ill news. 
A king is warring against his people ; 
His people, serpent-like, against themselves. 
Our Edmund Waller — the courtly gentleman, 
The poet, scholar, and the soul, 'twas thought, 
Of honor — has been detected in a foul conspiracy. 
He and his brother Tompkins and friend Chaloner 
Are hung ! There was no course but this. 


The battle of Newbury has been fought 
And the pure Falkland's fallen, with " peace" 
Upon his lips. Both armies worsted — London's militia, 
As Anglo-Saxons ever do, equalling the veteran's valor- 
Have retired to winter quarters, and we may soon 
Expect our friends. Essex is no great general. 


Then Cromwell will be home — your Lord and my Lord- 
Lambert will be home ! 


And my Charles, where ? 



Your Cromwell is the soul of our arms. 
He found a rabble crew, and formed 
A bulwark for our liberties. 

In Newbury's fight 
Our troops were felled by Rupert's fierce onslaught 
As hurricane fells forest-trees, till Cromwell 
With his netted foot, his mettled cavalry, 
A rocky front opposed, as breasts the firm-based mount, 
Now frowning in the clouds, now in the sunshine gleaming, 
The waves that lash its iron sides — mere mockery. 
Fairfax and Cromwell are our sole hope, 
His name alone a legion. 

Yet more than this, 
He's not found only in the fiercest fight, 
But in the Council stands pre-eminent ; 
Let but a friend of Cromwell's propose a step, 
And all the way shines bright, where was bat gloom. 
Were he like us, seeing no Charles, all would be well. 
His kinsman of England, with his regal rights, 
Falls like a shadow on his noble heart 
And palls his arm — though all his love is England's. 


We have one hope, and that is, that this Charles 
May yet be guilty of deceit towards him, 
And sever all their bonds. My friend — 
Iretok enters."] 


Is my friend Cromwell here ? — my father, 

For I have won that name winning his daughter's love. 

Cromwell enters.] 



My country's hope ! 


My father ! 


My honored lord 1 


My father 


And my — friend ! 


Love and esteem to each and all — 

My honorable wife ! 

To Lady Alice.] My lovely lacly ! my children ! 

To Pym.] Mine and England's truest friend, 
You've seen the cloud that lowers in our skies 
Coming as comes the snow, a leaden pall, 
Sent from the Ice-King's Court, as though in league 
Against us. You'll see it all dispelled 
As morning mist before the Day-King's messenger. 
Ray after ray now rises, and each one glistens 
Brighter than the last ; rolling its folds away. 
I would preserve my King, while quelling 
Our foes ; I would that he m'ght wear his royalty — 
An emanation from the Deity ; 
If he will no:, he is no King. He summons now 
One portion of the land to war upon the other. 
Scotland is all in arms, and in his cause 
Would wreak her vengeance upon England 
For her imagined wrongs — wrongs which have made 
Her great. One of the brightest jewels 


In earth's diadem, " Great Britain" speaks 
Her fame unto the wide, wide world. 


You, her general, speak of others' wrongs; 
Sees thy noble nature not thy own ? 


What means my son ? thy brow is clouded. 


Thine ear apart — these women and their tongues ! — 


Indeed — it must be weighty. 

Cromwell and Ireton apart.'] [Exeunt others. 


Since you took Hilsdon House and kept Oxford 
In alarm, even the foe do pit you against 
Prince Rupert ; the King, hearing this, himself 
Exclaimed : 

" I would some one would do me 
The good service to bring Cromwell to me, 
Alive or dead." 


He natters me ! 
But I'll not favor him with my presence yet. 
The time will come when we'll stand front to front. 


But more, he has dispatched letters to the Queen 
Touching your life. 


My life ! 'tis in God's hands ! 

SCE>7E 17.] CROMWELL. 43 


Concealed in a saddle — they will be sent 
To a certain tavern on the coast near this, 
And thence to France. 


We will dispatch some trusty friends 

To seize them — yet stay, we'll be those friends 

Ourselves. Come, you are ever ready 

For the scene of danger. We'll seize this saddle 

Ourselves. It may not prove an easy one 

To Charles. We'll borrow some troopers' cloaks 

And morions. Come, away! [Exeunt. 

A Camp. — Parliamentary Officers advance. — General's tent in front. 


So a deputation has been sent to Scotland 
To negotiate a treaty. 

Our lamb-like Parliament 
Are sick of war, ere they have heard its sound. 
Our troops too, all unpaid, as well as we — 
Where is our General Cromwell ? He is the man 
For times like these ! Essex and Fairfax 
Are too tamely given. 


Too true, alas ! — for now the battle 
Of Naseby is fought, and Colonel Monk has joined 
Our cause — but here comes Ireton, and Cromwell too. 
Iretox and Cromwell enter.] 

44 CROMWELL, [act II. 

Cromwell, with a letter. 

Weak and perfidious tyrant ! Here has he sealed 
His own destruction. 

Forsooth he is courted 
Alike by both factions, but rather thinks 
To close with the Presbyterians. 

His French Madam, 
Her whom they ycleped our Queen, reproaches 
Him with making too large concessions 
To those villains ; — and here he writes : 
iC But, dear heart, rest thou assured 
That I shall in due time know what to do 
With these rogues, who, instead of a silken leash, 
Shall befitted with a hempen cord." 
Look to it, Charles, thy head is not so firm 
On thy shoulders as it was an hour since. 


It may be he thus speaks to please his dame. 


And so would hang us some fair dny, 
By way of gallantry to his spouse ! 
There is no longer a King in England! 
Her monarchy died within the hour, 
Though it be aged sixteen hundred years. 
Harrison, return at once to camp ! Arouse 
Our troops ! rekindle the stifled flames 
Into a blaze ! — restore the confidence 
Of the army in its leaders ; assure them 
We have abandoned all intention 
In favor of this King. 

Ireton, what said 


The Parliament to the conditions I would propose 
Unto the King ? 


They did address them to him, 
And he returned an obstinate refusal. 


What then ? Speak quickly ! 


The vote of non-addresses was passed. 


Then is Charles in fact, though not in words, 
Dethroned ! 

We will keep down by military awe 
The majority in Parliament. 


But blow after blow on all sides falls upon us ! 
The Scots invade ! The fleets in the Thames 
Have hoisted the royal colors ; risings 
In Norfolk, Suffolk, Essex, Kent, and Wales ; 
Divisions among ourselves — Fairfax, 
Governed either by his wife or by his rigid 
Presbyterian principles, refused to lead 
Against the Scots. May it not be suspected 
That these movements are contemplated 
With secret complacency by a majority 
Of the Lords and Commons ? 


What of that ? 
He is not the only general in the land — 
We'll find another. The Master Genius 
Of the times shall rise, and against all 


Alone suffice ; — who greater, purer, than our Hampden ? 
Hasten you unto Fairfax ; govern him ; 
See that he suppress the insurrection 
In the South. In Wales I will subdue the revolt ; 
And while they think me there, I will to Scotland. 
I'll drive them to their hills — these Highland Chiefs. 
Haste ye to the South ! keep up the drooping spirits 
Of our troops. 


It shall be done. Fare you well. 
Giving letter.] But ha ! I did forget — I found this letter 
In my tent — it is addressed unto the troops. 


Ha ! Ha-a-aa ! What devil's work is this ? Ho, there ! 

Soldier enters.'] 
Are my brave fellows prepared for the review ? 
We soon shall meet the foe. 

The victory must be ours. 


They but await their General. 


I will attend. 
[Exeunt Cromwell and others through his tent. 


Scene changes to troops drawn up in line prepared for the Review — Let 
this be done by drawing aside the General's Tent. 

Cromwell advances with Officers — a letter in his hand — 

and says : 

Ha ! My brave soldiers in the Lord — 

What ! Discontent ? What ! Fears ? Whose lines 


Are these would stir you to revolt ? 

To revolt 
Against whom ? Against yourselves — for 'tis yourselves 
Who would fall, if you fail. Has not 
" The Almighty set his Canon against 
Self-slaughter ?" 'Tis this it bids you do — 
A suicidal act — No ! no ! it cannot be — 
The bare thought of such a dreadful deed 
Strikes terror in your hearts, and tears, I see — 
Tears of contrition, the only tears 
The Independent soldier ever sheds, — 
Steal mournfully down your cheeks. 

I can no more — 
You never will, I know, desert your Lord ! 
Desert your wives — your babes — your homes ! 
Desert your General and this holy cause ! 


Never ! never ! never ! 

Rear high our standard — lead us to the fight ! 

cromwell, unfurling a flag. 
The victory is won ! — " The Lord of Hosts is with us ! 
The God of Jacob is our refuge." — On, Ironsides, on ! 


Curtain Falls. 



Streets of London— Whitehall. 

A crowd of Citizens. 


The King ! the King ! 


What king ? 


Why our King, King Charles, 
Escorted now from Hurst to Windsor 
By our Colonel Harrison. 


What, have ve earthed the fox at last, 
Despite of all his cunning ? "He who publicly recognized* 
The houses at Westminster as a legal Parliament, 
And at the same time made a private minute 
In Council declaring the recognition null. 


Ay, and publicly disclaimed all thought 
Of calling in foreign aid against his people ; 
At the same time privately soliciting it 
From France, Denmark, and Lorraine. 


He denied that he employed Papists, at the same time 
Privately sent to his generals, directions to employ 

* Macaulav 


Every Papist that would serve ; publicly 
Took the Sacrament at Oxford, as a pledge 
That he never would even connive at Popery ; 
Privately assured his Popish wife that he intended 
To tolerate it in England, and authorized 
Lord Glamorgan to promise that it should 
Be established in Ireland- — and then attempted 
To clear himself at his agent's expense, 
Who received, in the royal handwriting, 
Reprimands, intended to be read by others, 
And eulogies, to be seen but by himself. 
Why, even his most devoted friends complain 
Among themselves, with bitter grief and shame, 
Of his crooked politics. His defeats, they say, 
Give them less pain than his intrigues." 


A prisoner, he will seek to cajole 

And undermine our Cromwell — who now returns 

Triumphant from the North. 


Let the poor king 
Pass privately to Windsor — admiring crowds 
Will yet attend his way, 


Ay, ay, his way to heaven or — 


All hail to Cromwell ! — Cromwell comes — Cromwell, 
Our hope, our trust. 

Cromwell enters, with Soldiers and great state.] 

Thanks — thai iks, 
My friends and fellow-soldiers in the Lord; 


The fight is fought, the victory is ours. 

Praise and thanks to Him, the God of battles, 

Who smiled upon our arms ; not unto me — 

His humble instrument. Give thanks, give thanks ! 


Amen ! Amen ! Amen ! 


Onward, brave troops. 
[Soldiers and Citizens exewit. 
To Cromwell.] — General, the King has gone to Windsor. 


Is sent, you mean-— [Aside.] — and thexce ! ! 

To Iretox.] — Bid Whitelock, Widdington, Lenthal, and 

Unto a private conference. 


Where ? 


Where ? Where but here, at Whitehall ? 

[Exit Ireton*. 
Charles at Windsor ! Cromwell at Whitehall ! 
Charles king in title, but in power how fallen ! 
And I, Oliver Cromwell, master of this realm. 
It is a vain and idle thing in me 
To strive to keep my thoughts among the herd, 
When all will have me great. It has been whispered 
That the King must die ; some men of blood, 
Warriors austere, who've ruled the nation 
Now for many months, meditate a fearful vengeance 
On the captive Kmg.* Where was engendered 

* U'.it or/ of InJepency. Part II. 


This most horrid thought ? Where could it be 

But in his most unrighteous acts, who, wrong 

On wrong upon his people heaping, has reared 

A power crushes beneath its might all reverence 

And all love. I will not harp on this, 

Nor ever will consent to shed that royal blood — 

A deed inexpiable, and which will move 

The grief and horror of the world. Some call 

Me hypocrite ; I am no fool. Charles the First 

Dead — vengeance all wreaked — his faults all flown 

With him, Charles the Second— next of the royal line — 

Will rise in youth and innocence, and veiling 

All his fathers faults, that sainted blood will cry 

Aloud to Heaven for vengeance on his judges. 

I ne'er will sanction this, have I but power 

To save him.* \E:dt Cromwell. 


Scene changes to Room in Whitehall. — A Royal Bed. — "WhitelocKj 
Widdington, Lexthal, and Deax, writing at a table. 

Cromwell e?iters. 


General, you are welcome once more to London. 


Thanks, my friends, thanks. Would that myself 
Were the less kindly greeted, and my poor King 
Had but his measure of his people's love. 


General, that thought was idly born, though born 

In reverence ; nothing will now suffice 


* Heath. 


Cromwell, throwing himself upon the royal bed. 

Nay, name it not ; there ever are expedients left, 

Asked in sincerity in a virtuous cause, 

Heaven-sent. I would devise some plan 

For the return of the secluded members 

To their duty in Parliament. An answer 

Of the Lower House to the messages of the army, 

Counselling gentleness, and a Proclamation 

Drawn, to be issued by the Lords and Commons 

For the settlement of the nation. I pray you 

Have this speedily done. \Exeunt. 

cromwell, alone. 

What am I now to do if this should fail ? 
I would not that his royal head should fall; 
And yet it may not reign. The people all are mine ; 
The soldiers too ; but only mine while I am 
Charles's foe. Thus far has Heaven smiled 
Upon the Independents' cause — a cause 
By their forbearance sacred made ; but let 
That royal blood be spilt, each drop that falls 
Will cleanse out an offence. 
My Ironsides name must e'er untarnished be ; 
In our rare camp, no drunkenness or gambling e'er is seen ; 
No rights of peaceful citizens disturbed, 
And woman's honor is most sacred held. 
Hampden and Pym are in their graves — 
Alas for England, and for me ! — Hampden fell [genets, 

On Chalgrave field, and Pym now sleeps with the Planta- 
While Buckingham, Strafford, Laud, lie in their bloody 

ireton enters. 

General, a missive — {Handing a letter. 



Nay, a letter. 


'Tis from the Queen. 


The Queen ! what Queen ? This curse of queens 

Has brought his royal head unto the block ! 

Ireton, my son, I see it all. 

It shows as black as yonder stormy cloud, 

And laden with Heaven's wrathfulness. 

They shall not kill my King. He yet shall live. 

What would this Queen ? 


A pass to return to England. 


Nay, nay, that would be fatal. Her Popish name 
Would whet the axe. Her presence give the blow. 


The States of Holland, too, have interposed. 


Unwisely done ; they have interposed ere now 
As England's foes — this is too fresh in memories 
Of the people and the troops. 


Colonel John Cromwell, 
Commissioned by the Prince of Wales, 
Would wait on you. 


Go tell him I may not see him. 
Tell him I know his errand. He knows 

54 cromwell. [act hi. 

I would have saved my King — would he have saved 

Himself — will save him if I may. \Ireton exits. 

I see it all; there is but one man left in England, 

The world asserts it ; that man is — who ? 

One Oliver Cromwell, late a plain country gentleman. 

What trick would Fortune play me ? Fortune, 1 

The heathen's boast. In this enlightened age, 

The Scriptures teach, man has no fortune 

But a destiny; clothed with due powers, 

Guided by an almighty hand, so long 

As Virtue's plain ways and walks, by Conscience 

Sentinelled, are trod, no foes can come, 

And his great charge fulfilled ; God's appointed end 

Is reached. 

If in his trust he faife, he falls 
Forever ; if he is true, he lives till the doom 
Of time. 

There is a leaden weight about my heart ; 
A pall enshrouds my thoughts. ' 
May Heaven give me strength in this dread hour. 

bradshaw enters. 
General, there is no treating with this Charles. 
He will be King, or nothing. 

Harrison and Grimshawe enter.] 


That shall he be 
Before to-morrow's sun. 

cromwell, rising and advancing. 

Nay, nay, my masters ! 
Such unseemly haste betokens malice, not justice. 
Since 'tis your will his royal head must bow 
To dust, remember he has been our King. 
Let this our deed, at which the world shall stand 


Amazed, at least the semblance of justice wear. 
Deposed, dethroned, tried in the face of all the world, 
For wrongs against his people and his realm, 
He as a King- should die, — a warning 
For all after times. 

Remember, He whose servitors 
We are, was by the accursed unbelievers 
Dragged unto His ignominious and most bitter death ; 
Remember how Xature yawned ; how the sun 
Shrunk from earth, in horror at the sight ; 
And the whole world convulsed. Remember, too, 
How, God Himself, He rose ; how His blessed name 
Drowns every sound where'er 'tis heard, when 
Every head in reverence bows, and every knee is bent; 
How they, in theirs, are wretched wanderers through the 

wide, wide world, — 
No land, no home, not even one resting-place ! 
I counsel, that you ponder well on this, 
Lest that, too late, you learn your fatal error. 


General, are you against us ? The troops — 


Are MINE ! 


General, sign here our sentence — 


Our sentence! — nay, nay ! — not mine, not mine! 

Oh ! I would stay your suicidal hands ; 

You know not what you do ! [Exit Cromwell. 


Our General not with us ? Have we raised 
A power we may not curb ? 



Fll hasten, and stir up 
The troops ; if they demand it, he will yield. 
His heart is with us, 'tis his hand that fails. 


It never failed till now. He would not have 

Us act so unadvisedly. 'Tis for ourselves, 

Not Charles, he counsels this. Let hut the people 

And the troops require, and he will sign the sentence. 


Then each unto his several friends; insist 
Upon our sentence being passed, and executed 
Without delay. [Exeunt. 

Cromwell's Room. 

cromwell, alone. 
Is it come to this ? that I, who ever sought 
But paths of peace and righteous ways, must steep 
My soul in blood, or lose my life ? There's nothing left 
But this. My life ! and what is life, that I should weigh it 
Against eternal death — deepest damnation — 
For this murder foul — for murder sure it is ! 
Who comes? — [Ireton enters.~\ — Ireton, my son, what 
means this haste ? 


The troops are murmuring that you stay their will ; 
The populace cry out, that they will have his blood. 


So have they cried before from the oldest time, 


Yet rent the air (their act scarce o'er) with waitings. 
Ireton, my son — Charles the First dead, Charles the 

Lives, most potent of the twain. Charles the First 
Living (imprisoned, an' you will), there is no Charles the 

And the Commons are rulers of the realm ! 


The Commons now are rulers of this realm — 
Cromwell their General — soon their King. 

[Cromwell starts at this. 
For we, your troops, are masters of the land. 

cromwell, looking earnestly, fixedly, and sternly at * Ire- 
ton, goes tip to him. 

There have been spectres, witches, weird women, 

In the olden times, so teach the nursery dames ; 

Which of all these art thou ? — wouldst drag my soul 

To ruin, offering thus the diadem 

For a blood-stained hand ? Canst thou be Ireton ? — 

My son ? Father to those darling babes 

Caressing, fondling, call me grandsire ? 

My daughter's husband? — art a man ? Put out 

Thine hand, — 'tis flesh and blood ! Let me but gaze 

Upon that face, — those locks ; — they live, as I have seen 

Them in the battle fierce, bristling with fury. 

Those eyes, — so cold, so china-like, — are thine. 

There are no smiles. 

[Half aside.] I never saw a smile upon his face. 
This hand — this cold and clammy hand — * * * 
How didst thou win my daughter's love? Xay, nay, 
Hast thou not entwined thyself about my heart ? 
Thy serpent beauties sure are basalisks ! * * * 

* Ireton, "the man of blood." — Clarendon. 


*The vision, Ireton, said not I should be King, 
But " greatest man of England." 


How such, but King ? — 
See, here is Grimshawe. 

grimshawe, entering. 

General, the people 
All, with one accord, demand his death. 


Grimshawe, the troops are there to preserve 
The law, which knows no populace 
And no partisans. 

harrison, entering. 
General, the troops are with the tradesmen siding, 
And all demand his death. 
Here is the warrant, wanting but your signature. 


Is it come to this ? — leave it, pray leave it ! 
Leave me all, awhile. 

\Exeunt all, save Ireton, icho goes to one side. 
Richard Cromwell, enters.] 
Ha ! what wouklst thou, son ? Com'st thou to urge 
This bloody act ? Why am I thus encircled by fierce 
hearts ? 


Father, you are o'erwrought — you mistake my purpose. 


Nay, nay ! you, like the rest, would rather be great 
Than good. I tell you, Virtue's is the only crown 
That's worth the wearing. 

* Clarendon. 



So have I learned, 
From the first lesson that I conned with you 
Till this dark hour of melancholy tasks. 
Father, upon my knee I do beseech you, sign not that ! 
I'd rather toil from sun to sun in the far 
Western wilds, — the turf my couch, the sky my canopy,— 
Than have this dear hand stained by an unworthy act, 
Much less give warrant for our monarch's death. 

cromwell, embracing Mm. 

Richard, my son — thou art my son — indeed 

Thou art ; I never prized you at one-half 

Tour worth. [Seeing Ireton.] Ireton, he reads a lesson 

Unto you, and them — those bloody men. 


He knows not the world. He is too young — 
The age of lovers, when, with mincing steps, 
They track fair maids, with silvery tongues ; 
This their high ambition. 

Here comes your fairest daughter. 


Go ye, and learn the people's and the soldiers' wills ; 
I would be alone with her. 

[Iretox and Richard exeunt. 
It may be she would unfold the delicate leaves 
Of her young heart unto her father's love, 
As doth the tender flower to the ever-cheering sun. 
Elizabeth enters.] My dearest child ! 


Father, your looks are sad, your eye is heavy, 


And on your brow the clouds of care, not anger ! 
Half aside.] I augur well from this. 


Why so ! what wouldst thou ask ? 


A life ! 


A life ! Whose is it that I hold the tenure of? 
Sure I am grown great, when life is in my gift — 
But I ne'er sought this power. 


My King's. 


Alas ! it is not mine to give or keep. 

All that I may do I have done ; I am no longer 

Master of myself, but slave to thousands. 

Hark to the rabble's cry! — a cry for blood ; 

Hark to the murmurs of my troops ! 

Most melancholy sounds that ever fall 

Upon a leader's ear. 


Better hear this 
Than Conscience's upbraiding voice should break 
The silence of the midnight air, bearing 
The shrieks of mothers, daughters, children grown, 
Ay, infants, too, ever to your restless couch. 


Stay ! stay ! No more — no more ! 


One thing, and I have done : 
You ever said, you loved me best of all. 


I have loved you as never other loved ; 

And I would make you partner in my young heart's hopes, 

Which you may turn to joy or bitterness 

Which shall il be ? It is your daughter, 

Father, asks you this. One word, and life and love, 

Or misery till death ! 


Nay, nay ! how so ? Speak, speak ! 


I love our Liege's son, and he loves me ; 
His father saved — and thou canst do it — 
Your daughter his son's bride — my father lives 
In honor and in glory ; the glory 
Of a great, a virtuous dee 1 ! 

Spurn this base rule ; 
Tis but a mob's, who'll turn against you, 
Gratified or no. 


But Charles has sought my life — would seek it again — 
And with my life my country's liberties. 
Great Brutus slew his best friend for Rome ; 
Should Cromwell do less for England, thou noble girl ? 


Ay, father, this is true ; but, Caesar slain, 
Was not the curse of blood upon their heads, 
And early, ignominious deaths their lot ? 
'Twere best to ponder on it. Oh, now I see 
You're moved ! Give me that hideous paper T 
Whose words gleam out like peace-pursuing nends. 


Nay, touch it not! If Charles and England 


Both can live, he shall ; if one must die, 
His was the smallest evil of the two. 
The times, my child, are changed — 

England is new-born. 
The spirit of the far Western clime new nature 
Has infused into us all. We must move on, 
Untrammelled by old customs, which do bind 
The hands, as Popery binds the soul. 
The Priest has fallen ! The Spirit of the Lord 
Is in the land ; and where He is, there is Liberty. 
Daughter, I would that I might grant thy prayer ; 
This Charles is e'en a noble boy ; if I may save 
His father, child, I will. First England — then ourselves. 
But hark ! what notes are these ? — a funeral dirge — 
What other of the heroes of the age has fallen? 

Ireton enter s^\ 
To Elizabeth] — Daughter, pray retire. 

[Elizabeth exits. 
Speak, Ireton, speak! what means your grief? 


Cromwell, my father ! you are a soldier, 
And a Christian, too. Rally around you 
All your strength, for you have need of it. 
The bolt has fallen on your house. 


My house ? my house ? My son ! my son ! 
Where is my Oliver ? 

Harbison, Grimshawe, and others enter, escorting a bier. 
What noble form is this? My child's ! [Falls on it. 

Almighty God, have mercy on me now. 
My boy ! my boy ! speak, speak ! — no voice to answer 
Mine, that ne'er was heard in vain. 


IJushed is the sweetest music I e'er heard ; 
Fallen the noblest form I e'er beheld. 


General — 


Can ye not spare me but a little while, 
My masters ? Surely, the State's service 
Gives me time to weep my first-born, 
And most fondly loved. How happened this, 
And where? 


Hastening to London with a small force, 
Sir John Elliott, with a troop of the late King's Horse, 
Assailed him. A Cromwell living, he a Cromwell 
Died — most bravely fighting to the last. 
Upon the news being brought, I hastened 
With full force, and found my boy — 
For he was mine, as yours — all England's — - 
For all loved him — honored him. 

His murderer 
Is ours — is to die ere set of sun. His purpose 
Was to hold your Oliver a hostage for the King. 
The King suggested this ; so say these lines. 

[Showing Cromwell the papers. 


In Charles's hand ! Give me the warrant; 
Blood Avill have blood. He who slew the son 
Can have no mercy at the father's hand. 

[Signs the Warrant; then kneels by the bier. 
My son ! my son ! 


Curtain Falls. 
End of Act III. 




The House of Commons. — The Statue of Charles thrown down, and on 
its pedestal written, ' ; The Tyrant, the last of the Kings, is gone."— In 

Bradshaw and Grimshawe advance. 


So amazement sits upon the land, and discontent 
Broods everywhere. 


' 'Twas thus that Cromwell, 
Who now is away in Ireland in our service, 
Told us it would be, and charged upon us 


He signed the warrant for King Charles's death. 


Who had not done the same, like circumstanced ? 
Open and secret threats — letters anonymous — his son 
thus sacrificed. 


He who foresaw the storm, should best know 
How to still it. 

A resolution has passed the Commons, 
That as the Lords seceded during the trial 
Of their King, so henceforth we shall make 
Uo more addresses to them, nor receive 
Aught from them; that, as the existence 
Of the Upper House is not only useless, 


But dangerous, it ought forthwith to be abolished. 
I also move the extinction of monarchical 
Government in England, and declare it 
High treason to proclaim, or any otherwise 
Acknowledge Charles Stuart, commonly called 
Prince of Wales. 

Let all in favor now in silence rise. 
They all rise, uncovered.} 


The Lord doth smile upon our acts. 




Hereto, then, I affix our great seal, whereon 
Is inscribe 1 — " On the first year of freedom, 
By God's blessing restored, 1648." 
Let now a Council of State be formed, 
To consist of forty-one members, of whom 
I do propose that Cromwell, Fairfax, St. John, 
And the younger Yane shall be ; upon them 
Shall devolve all the duties which formerly 
Attached to the Crown and its ministers 
In the two Houses. 


I would add you, friend Bradshaw, 
To the same, and now do put it to the vote. 


All in its favor rise. V^ IV V r? - se * 

Our Government is formed, and we adjourn. [Exeunt. 



Lady Cromwell, Lady Alice Lambert, Lady 
Elizabeth Cromwell, 
lady alice. 
Dear Lady Cromwell, hast thou no news from Ireland ? 
Some three months have already passed ; 
No tidings could be trusted from your Lord 
And mine. 


No news direct, but rumors of success ; 
Success such as has ever crowned 
Our Crom well's arms. Come, my fair Elizabeth, 
Thy song, thy voice, should be attuned to joyful measures, 
Thou peerless child of greatness. 


Nay, of griefs! 
There is no balm in gold or grandeur 
To the wounded heart ; mother, I have not sung 
For months, except his dirge. 


Fie, fie ! why must thou be 
A puling girl, and weep for thy boy lover, 
Forgetful of the greatness that surrounds thee ? 


Mother, thou hast crossed o'er the stream 
Upon whose bosom Love's bark floats, and left 
Its flowery banks for the thick chaparral, 
Where the acactus, with its go:geous hues, 
Hides the sharp stings await the venturous foot. 


This gorgeous grandeur blinds your eye sedate ; 
Fear lest its dazzling glories lead to ruin. 


Thou bird of evil omen ! yet most fair 
Of my fair brood, why flew the barb from the sole quiver 
Could most deeply wound, that pierced thy bosom— 
A wound must rankle, never to be healed by him ? 
Nay ! cheer thee, child ; there are a hundred heroes 
Woo thy hand ; ay, titled, and with wide domain, 
Thou shouldst be mother to a race of men; 
I would be grandani to the sweetest crew 
That ever revelled o'er a gay parterre. 


Tou might have been grandam to a long line 
Of kings ! 


And will be yet. 


The dream was to my father, and no more. 
Attendant enters.] 


Madam, some gentlemen await on you. 


My Lady ! Girl — will you never learn ? admit them ; 
Daughter, receive them graciously. 

Bradshaw, Grimshawe, and Martin enter.'] 
Ah, worthy Master Bradshaw, and my friends, 
Grimshawe and Martin ; your smiles betoken news — 
Good news ; haste give it me ! 


And me ; for I am trembling with loving eagerness. 



Temperance, fair dame, is next to chastity 
In maiden hearts. 


Pray ye, what says my Lord ? 


That Ireland is ours — Drogheda, Wexford, 
Duncannori, Waterford, Estionage, Carrick, 
And Passage Fort are won. The first-mentioned 
Four, with loss of life; the last, surrendered. 
All of your friends are well ; Lord Broghill 
Did good service to our cause, and the wild Irish 


It was Lord Cromwell's voice that won him over. 


My father's voice was ever wisest. 


Sweet child 
Thou sayest well, and soon may thank him for us all ; 
I'd have no sweeter spokesman than yourself, 
To render him the homage of our hearts. 


Why soon ? Surely the war is not yet over. 


His services are needed nearer home ; 

The Parliament have summoned him ; 

Our General Ireton is with him now, 

And well may take command, though Cromwell has 

Full liberty to appoint whom best it pleases him. 

The Council waits, and we must take our leave. 



Farewell, gentlemen. My thanks to yon. 

\Exeunt Gentlemen. 
Sweet Lizzy, see — I am mother of great men, 
If not of kings : " Onr General Ireton !" 
I would that Richard loved an active life, 
Not pondering o'er dnll tomes— a carpet knight. 
Alas ! my Oliver ! He was a hero from his birth. 

A trumpet and peoples cheers. 


Hark ye, the shouts ! It is our General comes. 

Cromwell enters, saluting each. 
My honored wife, my Lady, and my love — 
How glorious shine your beauties at this hour ; 
A joyous greeting for your truant Lord. 


Who should have come with lute upon his arm. 
Such sweet words on his lips. How fare you, 
My dear Lord ? 


A little weary, though right well. 
How does our honored Lambert's lovely wife ? 
He bade me bear you this. \Kissing her. 

I need not ask ; 
A garden of sweetest flowers by moonlight seen 
Scarce rivals you. 


Nay, pardon me, but rather 
By the light of yon bright orb, just resting 
Now upon the throne of day — a herald 
Unto thee, our General and our Lord, it shows thy way. 



Be but a harbinger of peace, and I shall thank 
You, sweet one. 

Turning to Elizabeth^ — My fairest child, 
Where is thy smile — thy kiss ? 

lady Elizabeth, kissing him. 
There, my great father — pardon me ! 


What means 
This coldness in you, who ever rushed 
Into my arms — or stood on tiptoe, eager 
To embrace, when stayed in your approach ? 
What ! can it be that I am grown so proud 
And great (if I am, I did not know it), 
That even my best-loved daughter is awe-filled ? 
If so — away with honors, glories, fame, and power — 
I'd rather rule by love than majesty. [Tunis away. 


Nay, she has grown timid, Sir, of late ; 

She sings no more — nor smiles. 

Aside to Elizabeth.] Thou foolish girl ! 


I see it all. 
Farewell, domestic joys — the innocent joys 
Of home ! 

My generalship I purchased 

With my dear son's blood ; my country's safety, 
With my daughter's love ! 
Why, what a bawble is aggrandizement ! 
The serpent eye of Jealousy — the soft voice of Deceit — 
The blandishments of men who favors seek — 
Eye-service everywhere — but nothing from the heart ! 


I had it once — all that the heart could ask : 

My son's, my daughter's. Charles stole his life ; 

His son, her love — I know not which the weightiest loss : 

Hers, 'tis a lighter grief to miss him here, a warrior 

In heaven — than see her like a delicate flower 

Lose her bloom, and perish leaf by leaf — 

My girl ! My boy ! my brave, my noble boy, 

My Oliver — why should I weep ? He serves 

In heaven now, while I am serving Heaven 

Upon earth. 

I must attend upon the Council. 
Exeunt Ladies the other.'] [Exit one side. 

Grand Council-Chamber, Westminster — Counsellors seated — A Trumpet. 


Hark to the trump ! Our General comes ; 
He has proved himself a gallant officer — 
The General of the age. 


As he has proved 
Best Counsellor m our cause — 

Welcome unto our General ! 

As Cromwell enters, with Officers and armed Attendants, 
the Counsellors rise. 


Thanks, my good masters — fellow-Counsellors! 
Thanks for this welcome of my humble self, — 
The honored instrument of Heaven's will, 
To whom all honor, power, glory, is given. 
They all uncover their heads.] 



On earth as heaven. Amen. 


Oar arms victorious — Ireton, my son, 

I have left in Ireland, supreme. 

In all my sieges, battles, storms, assaults, 

I deemed that mercy best would be consulted 

By speediest termination to our war, 

And therefore pray ye think, if you would harshly judge 

My course, 

" How much the evils attend 

Upon a few instances of severity 

In the outset, are compensated 

By the cutting off long years of obstinate resistance." 

Finding the Irish such a wild and savage race, 

I felt that I was forced to string myself 

Even to acts of seemins: cruelty and horror ; 

Their arms not turned upon their foes, 

They turn upon each other — with scarce a cause of wrong. 


In Henry the Second's reign, Cambrenses 
Wrote — "that the only way to civilize 
The Irish was %o exterminate them 
And seize their estates." 


Nay, my good masters ! 
I would not have that Emerald Isle, 
The great capital out of winch our debts 
Are paid, our services rewarded, our acts 
Of bounty performed. Win them to p^ace 
And love, by gentlest arts; now that they, knowing, 
Fear your power, teach them that 'tis not your intention 


To extirpate the nation — for now in flight 
They seek a refuge from their wrongs ; at least 
Some fifty thousand have already left the land. 
I would that they were taught the peaceful arts, 
Then plenty soon would follow in their train, 
Poverty be a stranger to that land, most blessed 
On earth, and virtue reign lord paramount. 


We will debate on this, and act as you may counsel. 
But now we have received news from Scotland : 
They have proclaimed young Charles their King, 
And King of England, Ireland, and France. 


But have they made him such ? Best as it is — 
Better that now while our troops are flushed 
With victory. Trouble not, my masters ; 
We will dispel their force as sun the mist. 


Thou dauntless man — now learn what for thy services 
The House appoints. [Cromwell botes. 

The Palace of St. James thy residence, 
With such attendants as beseemeth thee 
And them; large grants of land 

To their victorious General, 
Most full approval of your every step, 
And, with entire confidence in your ability 
And faithfulness, they, on behalf of all England, 
Give their thanks. 


Nay, my good friends, Whitehall is well enough. 


For you, 'tis true, who love the tented field. 



Nay, would I were out of the trade of war, 
And here in council with you at Westminster. 


Till then thy wife and children are our most valued 

guests ; 
While you are caring for the State away, 
Here must we guard them cheerily. 

We have sent 
To learn Lord Fairfax's will as to the conduct 
Of the war in Scotland, and he declines 
Assuming the command — 'tis thought, at instance 
Chiefly of his Presbyterian wife ; but says 
That should the Scots England invade, he would be ready 
To lay down his life. 

cromwell, aside. 
How all things tend to my advancement ; 
I could devise naught better. 

Aloud.] " Notwithstanding his unwillingness, I pray 
Ye may continue him General of your army, 
For I would rather serve under him, than command 
The greatest army in all England." 


Fearing your views 
Were such, we've sent a committee to advise 
With him. [Cromwell going. 

I pray you do not withdraw yourself, 
Nor yet, in compliment and humility, 
Obstruct the public service by your refusal. 
Stay yet awhile, and learn what Lord Fairfax 
Further says ; our committee come. 
committee enter. 

Still on his purpose bent, 


Lord Fairfax's Secretary at the door awaits 
To surrender his commission, if we 
Think fit to receive it. 


Did ye remind 
Him that the Scots had invaded England 
Since the recognition of the solemn League 
And Covenant, And in direct contravention 
Of its letter as well as spirit ; that now 
They meditate another inroad, under the banners 
Of Charles Stuart, whom, without the Commonwealth's 

They have proclaimed Sovereign of the three kingdoms ; 
And therefore if there must be war, 'twere best 
To choose the enemy's country for the scene, 
Than permit a hostile army to penetrate 
Into the heart of this nation, already wasted 
By the ravages of our own civil dissensions ? 


We did, my Lord. He still refused. 


Then, my masters, if ye do receive surrender 

Of his commission, which I would counsel 

Te temperately to consider, though /know not 

What else to do, since he will die to all his former glory. 

"And become the monument of his own name,"* 

Which every day'll wear out, there should 

For his past services recompense be made 

Aside.'] (Their future General may require the like), 
A liberal recompense. 


So let it be ; receive we the commission, 
* Cromwell's words. 


And grant to him two thousand pounds a year. 


Two thousand pounds! — scarce enough, my friend; for 

you or us 
It would suffice. 


Greatness, my masters, brings 
Great charges in its train ; make it five thousand pounds 

a year; 
Now, I pray ye, excuse me. [Retires one side. 


Our General counsels well ; so let it be. 
Admit his Secretary. 

Secretary enters.] Young Sir, we do accept 
Surrender of your Lord's commission ; 
Bear this to him, with our be^t thanks — 
A settlement upon him for his past services 
Of five thousand pounds a year : so would our General 

This being disposed of, now I would propose 
That our Lieutenant-General be Captain-General 
Of all the land forces ; that his commission 
Be instantly drawn up ; and that the Council of State 
Hasten the preparations for the Northern expedition. 

all. ' 
Let it be so. 


The commission is prepared; I will affix 
The seal. Captain-General, I salute you — now — my friend ! 
Cromwell bows to them, token they retire, and then ad- 
vances with commission in his hand. 


Captain-General of all the land forces of England, 


Then supreme ruler, under Heaven, of the realm ! 

Why am I raised to all this honor ? I sought it not. 

It must be that I am by high Providence 

Selected for the accomplishment of great purposes ; 

" May it not be as instrument of the will divine, 

As writ in Holy Scripture, which shadows forth 

The triumphs and felicities of the Messiah's kingdom?" 

Ludlow enters?^ Ha! Ludlow, my friend! 

Aside.] I do not understand this man. 




Thou art cold — why so ? Hast thou suspicion 
Of my integrity, as servant of the public ? 
Dost thou suppose that I would be their master, 
Seeing I am grown so great in power ? 
Believe me, I am but Heaven's instrument. 


Enough, enough ! I should not doubt you. 


No, you should be the very last to do so. 
Incumbent it maybe on me many things to do, 
Even extraordinary in the judgment of some men, 
VV ho, now opposing, would bring ruin on themselves, 
On me, as well as on the public cause. 
But here I do declare that all I do 
Shall be but for the people's good, for whose welfare 
I am prepared to sacrifice my life. 


We may not doubt you, General, in this. 



You should not, with, the past proofs you have ; 

All my desires are to settle the nation 

In a free and equal commonwealth. 

There are no other means to keep the old rulers out ; 

And, in all reverence and humility, I must say 

I feel it is the Lord's design His people 

To deliver from every burden. 


In " that the Lord at thy ri^ht hand shall strike 
Through kings in the day of His wrath ; 
He shall fill the places with the dead bodies ; 
He shall wound the heads over many countries ; 
The people shall be willing in the day 
Of thy poiver — thou art a priest forever." 
There have I my commission. I will reform 
The clergy and the law ; the sons of Zeruiah 
Are still too strong for us. 

Wilt thon not aid me 
To fulfil God's will ? I need the services 
Of such as thou, godly and gallant gentlemen. 


Most gladly, General, if in God's service. 


It is ; wilt thou accept the Lieutenant-Generalship 
Of Ireland? 


I will — most sensible of the honor 
You now do me. 


Then hasten preparation. 


Ireton has returned, and I would you were there. 
Farewell. [Exit Ludlow. 

He may be troublesome. I would remove — 
During my absence in the North, where, should reverse 
Befall me — the more violent republicans, 
Of whom he is one ; they might take advantage, 
And place the power of the State in other hands. 
Oh, curse of greatness ! — I do already feel 
That I have more to dread from former friends 
Than enemies avowed. 

The army I will make 
Subservient to my ulterior plans ; 
I'll separate the interests of the soldiers 
From those of their old commanders ; 
I will dismiss many of the " godly party," 
And give their places to men who make 
Arms their trade. 

While Fairfax stands an empty name, I'll mould the army 
To my mind — " weed out the godly," they are 
Bad fighting: men, and fill their rooms with such 
As make no question for conscience' sake ;* 
But I must do it gently, and unperceived 
By the eyes of men. I need no " agitators ;" 
They are as two-edged swords — I must not cast 
Them only to one side, but have them under foot, 
And, if needs be, grind them into powder; 
So shall I distribute all my fanatics far apart 
la different regiments. 

We will have 
No convocations now of saints. 

Ireton enters.'] Ha, Ireton, what news ? 


Bad — as ever. 

* Cromwell's words. 



Give it me. 


Three of our bravest captains are arraigned 
For a conspiracy against your life, 
And now are before the Council of State, in the 
Adjoining chamber. 


My life ! what would they with my life ? 
They value it at more than I do, if they'd steep 
Their souls in perdition — their good names 
In infamy. 

Who are they, and their cause for it ? 


Rich, Staines, and Watson — they have confessed 
That in a dream they were advised to it, 
In words of Scriptural cant. 


In the adjoining chamber, 
Do you say ? Not yet condemned ? I'll make 
An example of them for all time. Come with me. 


Room adjoining Council-Chamber. 

Rich, Staines, and Watson, before the Council. 
cromwell enters with ireton. 
What meaneth this, my goo 1 masters — and ye, 
My weil-tried captains, conspiracy against my life ! 
Why would ye take it before the eyes of men ? 


Te who might have had it tens of thousand times, 

Unseen by all save the unseen eye of God ? 

My body-guard, ever in the closest fight ; 

Ye easily had mistook me for a foe ; 

My sentinels, at silent hour of night, 

When all about me slept save ye yourselves — 

Ay, and my ve;*y cup-bearer wert thou, my Rich, 

\Then I was faint at Xaseby — fie, fie, Sirs ! 

Shame on ye, pitiful, sneaking, and poor knaves 

That ye are ! see how ungrately ye had been to me — 

How treacherous, cowardly to yourselves ! 

What would ye further with them, Sirs ? 


A hempen cord ! 


Your pardon, my good Bradshaw 3 
And my thanks, my friends, in that you deem 
My life worth three — with your good leave, I have 
A condign punishment for them. 


Pronounce it thou — against you their offence. 


'Tis this : that ye be taken hence — what ! do ye start 

And tremble ? ye poor weak fools ! do ye fear 

Death now ? ye who ne'er knew fear before ? 

I have oft marked ye well, Sirs — I say, shall be taken 

Hence — taken to my troops — all your bonds loosed — - 

Conscience awakened from this dreadful lethargy, 

Ye shall your deed anticipated see 

In all its naked horror — upon the rack — 

Ye tremble — see what mean things a guilty conscience 

Makes, e'en of the stoutest and the bravest hearts ; — 


Upon the rack, I say — ay, upon the rack 

Of conscience ye shall lie — a living testimony 

Of my judgment, and show unto the world 

The vengeance Cromwell takes upon his private foes. 

But woe to those whom he shall find the State's. 

Go hence, and let me hear no more of this. 

When that ye deem my country needs my life, 

Come then and take it — 'tis freely hers. 

Release their bonds. 


Thou great and glorious soul, 
The State would thou shouldst have a private guard. 


I have it, friends ; but in the private thoughts, 

The secret heart of every Englishman. 

With God upon my side, these canting fools 

Will prove a better bulwark than ten thousand guards. 

Now join in prayer and thanks to Heaven, my friends, 

Then will I unto Scotland. 

[They kneel* and curtain falls. 

End of Act IV. 




Bradshaw, Grjmshaw, and Martin, 
What news to-day from Cromwell ? 


Our foes dispersed at Derwent, Dunbar, 

Indeed, where'er he met them ; at Edinburgh, 

He lies sick with a grievous fever ; 

Two skilful doctors to bis aid I've sent, 

And, by God's providence, I trust he may be saved. 

The State can spare him not ; though here he writes, 

" Indeed, my Lord, your service needs not me — 

I'm a poor creature, have been but a dry bone, 

And am still an upnrofitable servant 

To my Master and to you." But, Heaven 

Be praised ! our Goddard writes, he mends ; 

And the same hour brings advice that the young Charles 

In arms towards England comes. 


And this from Cromwell ; 
Which doth intimate that all his forces 
Withdrawn beyond the Forth, temptation thus 
Is thrown in Charles's way, to confide himself 
And cause to the English nation, whose loyalty 
He would test. 

He our General further entreats that we, 


The Council of State, collect what force 

We can without loss of time, and give Charles check 

Until he shall overtake him. Lambert, with the cavalry, 

Is sent to join brave Harrison at Newcastle, 

To watch their motions, and straiten them on their way„ 

Though not to risk a battle. 

Enter an officer.} Ha ! what news ? 


Major-General Massy and the Earl of Derby 
Have been repulsed by Lilburn at Wigan, 
And Charles has entered Worcester, where 
He has solemnly been proclaimed by the Mayor, 
Amid the loud acclamations of the gentlemen 
Of the county. 


Charles at Worcester! — haste ye and rouse our friends ; 

Bid them use all speed to meet our Cromwell, 

And aid him in his " crowning victory ;" 

For such shall this fight be. Haste ye, and urge on 

Our supplies and men. Haste all ! [Exeunt. 

Troop before Worcester. — Hour, Daybreak. 

Troops enter and form in line of battle, crying, "Long live 
the Commonwealth of England!" "Long live Crom- 
well !" who enters with Iretox and Officers. 


Thanks, thanks, my brave friends and fellow r -soldiers. 
What news, my Ireton ? 



The Bridge of Upton, held by General Massy, 
Lambert has carried against fearful odds, 
Leaving their General wounded on the field. 


Praise be to God ! — long live our gallant Lambert ! 


Fleetwood has forced the passage of the Team. 
A bridge of boats over the Severn at Bernhill 
Thrown; at Powick, too, a fierce attack was begun, 
And pike to pike they fought at set of sun. 


Day dawns, my troops — nay, 'tis the sun himself; 

[Sun breaks through clouds. 
Nature has veiled our brave intents ; 
So " let the Lord arise, and let His enemies 
Be scattered."* 
Martial Music; cannon at first near, then more distant. 
They charge upon the enemy / fresh troops come on the 
stage, and charge after charge. 
On, my brave troops ! on ! on ! 

They break — their King doth turn — Ha ! ha ! brave boys ! 
I profess they run. The victory is ours ; 
The Commonwealth is safe. Let all our thoughts 
Tend to His honor, who hath wrought 
So great salvation, and let not wantonness 
And pride follow this crowning mercy. 

Officer enters and presents papers, 


From the Council of State to their General Cromwell. 


* Psalm lxviii. 



The fight is fought ; the victory is gained ; 

The Scots subdued ; their Charles the Second fled ; 

What now remains to do ? — Much, much — there is 

A war within this heart, far fiercer raging 

Than all outward foes. Down, fell ambition, 

With your fiend-born crew, which feast upon its members 

Ere 'twill die ! 

Now, as I have in arms, 
So must I seek in peaceful arts to raise 
The power of England. 

Looking at the paper s.~\ They do salute me here 
As though I were their King, and would escort 
Me in great state to London. My home, a palace — 
And in each address greet my ears with loftier adulation 
Than e'er was lavished on the scion 
Of an hundred kings ! 

Iretok" enters J] Ha ! Ireton — 'twas bravely fought — r 
A word with you. 

The power of Parliament 
Must be lowered! — its duration limited — 
All political offences committed 
Before Worcester's fight must be forgiven, 
Except some certain cases. 


This is well thought; 'twill make you friends. 

It is decided Parliament be dissolved 

Three years from this. [Exit 


Three years ! — but see, here are 
Enter Wiiitlock, Whally, Desborough.] 
Our friends. Ha! Whitloek, Whally, Desborough — 


What think ye, Gentlemen — 
Were it best to perpetuate the Commonwealth 
On fixed principles, or re-establish a mixed form 
Of monarchical government ? 


General, onr friends, 
The army, will not have a Monarchy. 


I would advise revival of the ancient Constitution — 
King, Lords, and Commons — 'tis better adapted 
Than a Republic to the laws, the habits, 
The feelings of Englishmen. 


Well spoken, learned friend , 
But pray, whom would you recommend unto the throne ? 


Charles Stuart or the Duke of York, provided 
They submit to our conditions. 


Aside.'] Humph ! [Aloud,] Methinks 

They never will. 'Tis true, somewhat 
Of a monarchical government would be most effectual, 
If it could be established with safety 
To the liberties of the people as Englishmen 
And Christians. 

Methinks I have heard you do propose 
Reduction of the army and of their pay. 
By your leave, deem you this wise ? — pray you, 
Weigh it well, as also in all other retrenchments. 
Rather let speedy and effectual means 
Be taken for the propagation of the Gospel, 


And all arrears due the array be paid forthwith. 
Remember you their services and privations 
In the course of a long war. 

See ye not, my friends, 
That this paltry junto of statesmen who preside 
At Westminster, the miserable remains 
Of that illustrious body first met in 1640, 
Actuated by no feelings but the love 
Of power and emolument, intend 
To keep the precious fruits of victory 
To themselves, in their own hands, and condemn 
The army to poverty and degrading insignificance ? 
'T would be unjust, disgraceful, that men 
Who never saw the tented field, nor suffered 
In the long campaign, should enjoy 
Those things for which the army have so often 
Shed their blood. Let them now be in possession, 
They never will resign ; but, in defiance 
Of the people and our soldiery, exclude 
From all share in the government every man 
Of truly patriotic principles. 

Whally, pray you draw up a petition 
To this effect, and vindicate your rights. 


We will. 


Ay, and hasten to present it. 

\Exeunt Whally and Desborough. 


General, may not this course be deemed, 
To say the least, hasty and unconstitutional, 
Thus to address the Parliament — in either hand 
The sword or the Petition? 

scexi: II.] CROMWELL. 89 


You, Whitlock, are a lawyer, 
Who by your code must work ; men of the world 
And soldiers, let their natures teach. 

You are a very faithful, most efficient Lord Commissioner, 
But, I fear much, look not into the root of the times. 
You have met oar officers, learner! their views — 
" What think you, if a man should take upon himself 
To be a king ; would it not cure all ills ?" 


The remedy, I think, were worse than the disease. 


Why think you so ? 


As to your own person, 
The title of king would be of no advantage. 
You have already the full kingly power. 
It might awaken jealousies — besides, 
The King of Scots yet lives ; the people look 
Upon him as their natural King. 


The King of Scots — [Aside.] — why died he not at Wor- 
cester ? 


I would propound your Excellency should send 

To him, and have a private treaty with him ; 

Secure yourself and friends ; make yon and your posterity 

Forever great — the name of Cromwell an example 

For all time. He will accept any condition, — 

Besides, there is a rumor in the land, 

That there's a link binds Charles to Cromwell's House. 

You have a daughter — pardon me — most fair; 


This Charles is young, and once did consort with her — 

[Cromwell starts. 
Wherefore not wed them ?* Then your right to rale, 
As his Prime Minister, no man could dispute. 


He has already sought my daughter's hand;f 

But have I the right to jeopard my dear child's peace, 

and prosperity, 
By trusting one so profligate, so prodigal, 
So loGt to all fair fame as he ? 

I cannot think of it. 
I have refused her hand. Meantime, I would suggest 
That the sovereign power be placed 
In the hands of a Commission of forty persons, 
Chosen from the Army, the Senate, 
And the Council of State. What think you of this ? 
Some of our friends do counsel it. 


I fear 
'Twere dangerous to dissolve the House ; besides, 
Your Excellency, the formation of the proposed Commis- 
Is quite unconstitutional. 


Ever the lawyer, Whitlock. 
I thank you for your friendship, and when you have 
Leisure from the cares of state, which I know 
Weigh heavily on you, will further counsel take. 
Good day, my friend — my honest friend. 

[Exit Whitlock. 
He wed my daughter ! That may not be. 
'Twas by my act his father died. This Whitlock 

* Russell. f Pictorial History of England. 


Is very honest — the spokesman of the times. 

None but a Stuart can, it seems, be king. 

The vision said, I should be greatest man, but did not 

say the King ! 
We'll look to this. 

Ingoldsby enters?^ Ha ! Ingoldsby, my friend ! 


Advised of what your and the army's feelings 

Are, the Commons now are urging through the Bill 

For their own dissolution, encumbered 

With all the provisions to which the military are opposed. 


Did none object to this ? Had we no friends there ? 


Harrison most sweetly and most humbly 
Conjured them to pause, while I came here 
To counsel you to act. Your presence is much 
Needed there. 


Thou hast well done, — now is the time 
To act. We'll hasten unto Westminster. 
Call Colonel Worsley and my Guard. [Exeunt. 

House of Commons in session — Westminster. 

Cromwell enters with IinGOLdsby, and takes his seat on 
one of the outer benches, and beckons to Harrison. 


Harrison, I judge the Parliament now ripe 
For a dissolution. 


To St. Joex.] My friend, my friend, I have come 
With a purpose of doing what grieves me 
To my very poul, and what I have earnestly 
With tears besought the Lord not to impose 
On me ; but there is a necessity, in order 
To the glory of God and the good of the nation. 


Sir, the work is very great and dangerous. 
I desire you seriously to consider before you 
Engage in it. 


You say well ; we will consider on it. 


The Bill for the dissolution of this House, 
With due restrictions on the military power, 
Having been well debated, I move the question 
Now be taken. 


This is the time — now must I do it. 
Addressing the JEToitse.] My friends, my friends, have we 

fought and bled for this ? 
Left we our homes, our wives, our babes, to make 
The sward at best our beds, if not our graves, 
While you, self-seekers and profane, denying justice, 
And oppressors all, lapped in luxuries, 
Found uneasy rest even upon your downy pillows — 
We fasting when you feasted — the elements 
Fiercest beating on our unprotected heads, 
While you sat sheltered by your blazing hearths, 
Idolizing the lawyers, constant advocates of tyranny? 
And for what did we this ? Returning 
Victorious over every foe, to find reward 


In glory, honor, ease, and plenty ? Homes where 
We might rest our wearied frames, and nurse 
Our racked joints to health again ? 

Was this our return ? 
No, no ; not so ; no comfort for your tools ; 
Months of our pay in arrears ; our crying babes, 
Crying but for the crumbs fall hourly from your tables ; 
Our weeping wives, heart-riven by their sufferings ; 
While we, disabled in your cause that ye might feast, 
Have not wherewith to break our fast. But, Sirs, 
Tour time has come. The Lord has disowned you ; 
He has chosen more worthy instruments 
To perform His work. 


Sir, Sir, I never have heard 
Words so unparliamentary and offensive, 
And uttered, too, by our own servant, 
Whom we have so fondly cherished ; whom, 
By unprecedented bounty, we have raised 
To the elevation on which he now stands. 


Come, come, Sir; I'll put an end to your prating. 

This must not, shall not be. Te shall disgorge 

A portion of those rights which ye so long 

Have preyed on. Ye would be masters ; fit masters 

Ye shall be, but of yourselves alone. 

Here die your tyrannies, ambitions, robberies, 

And oppressions of the public. 

Ho, there! without! [Soldiers enter. 
Behold tour masters ! jT, their and God's instrument. 
For shame on you, vile leeches that ye are ! 
Go, get you gone ; give place to honester men; 
To those who will more faithfully discharge 


Their trust. You are no longer a Parliament ! 
I tell you, you are no longer a Parliament ! 
The Lord, the mighty Lord, has done with you ; 
He has chosen other iustruments for His work. 


I do protest against this proceeding. 

cromwell, laughing. 

Oh, Sir Harry Vane ! Sir Harry Vane ! 

A vain protest — most vain. The Lord deliver me 

From Sir Harry Vane — ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Taking Martin by the cloak.'] Thou art a lecherous 
knave — retire ; 
We must have modest men here ! 

To another.'] Thou art an adulterer — begone ! 
You taint the very air. 

To another.] Thou art a drunkard and a glutton — 
Away ! a very beast ! 

To another.] And thou an extortioner- 

The rack were thy just doom. Millions hast thou 
Kept on it. God gave even you a conscience. 
Go — for now you'll find it — go to your solitude, 
I have your ill-gotten, heart-wrung gains. 
Ye are dishonest and corrupt livers all, 
A shame and scandal to the profession 
Of the Gospel. 


I do refuse to withdraw, 
Unless I am compelled to leave this chair. 

Harrison" leads forth two of the military, at a sign from 
Cromwell, to make a show of force, and, laying his 
hand on Lenthal, assists him to descend. About eighty, 


among ichom is Algernon Sidney, follow this example, 
and move towards the door. 


It is you who have forced me to do this. 
I have sought the Lord night and day, that 
He would rather slay me, than put me on 
The doing of this work. 


It is not yet too late 
To undo what has just been done. 


This from you, Sir ? 
You, who have defrauded the public to the amount 
Of some hundred thousand pounds, as Treasurer 
Of the army ! Take him into custody, 
Until he answers for this peculation. 

Fixing his eyes on the mace.] 
What shall we do with this fool's bawble ? 
Here — carry it away. 
He snectches the Act of Dissolution from the hands of 

the Clerk.] 
Lock fast the door, and bring the keys — 
I will unto Whitehall. 

[He retires, and the door is locked. 


"Whitehall. — Council of State — Council of Officers waiting Cromwell's 


Cromwell enters. 
My friends, my fellow-sol- liers, I have been sorely tried ; 
I did not think to have done what I did ; 


But, perceiving the Spirit of God 
So strong upon me, I would no longer 
Consult flesh and blood, but let the Spirit act- 
Behold the spoil — the mace, the keys of the lower House, 
The Act of Dissolution — the Parliament is no more. 


How mean you, General? The Parliament no more? 
This course can only lead to ruin and confusion. 


Leave that to me. Have I ever yet failed ? 

I will do much more good to the country 

Than ever could be expected from Parliament. 

Aside.'] Ireton, a word with you. [They retire one side. 


Means so hypocritical, the end will sure be bad. 
What could be passing in the General's mind, 
When he praised the Parliament so highly 
To the Council of Officers, and yet proceeded 
Immediately afterwards to eject them 
With so much scorn and contempt ? 


True, true ; if ever the General drolled in his life, 
He has drolled now. We must look to this. 


Gentlemen, if you are here met as private persons, 
You shall not be disturbed ; but if as a Council 
Of State, this is no place for you; and since 
You cannot but know all that was done at the House 
But this morning, so take notice that the Parliament 
Is dissolved. 



Sir, we have heard what you did 
At the House in the morning, and before many hours 
All England will hear it ; but, Sir, you are mistaken 
To think that the Parliament is dissolved ; 
For no power under heaven can dissolve them 
But themselves. Therefore take you notice 
Of that. 


Ay, indeed ; this is true. 


Ay, true ; most true. 


Ye too, Gentlemen ! I thank ye, Sirs. 

All England soon will hear it ; and, hearing, know 

That the Parliament would have sent their officers 

And soldiers into private life, upon diminished pay, 

And stripped of all influence those who had made 

Them great, and England to be feared. 

The Army and the Navy both, in their addresses 

Unto me, declare that they will stand or fall, 

Live or die, in support of these my measures. 

The populace throughout the land will thank me 

For it ; ay, and chant hymns of triumph 

O'er your fall ; magnify the name of the Lord, 

Who has broken the mighty, and cast 

The proud down to the ground. 

Aside] Ireton, 'tis well 

"We have done what we have ; these statesmen 
Are fast becoming adepts in our policy. 
Had but the Bill for dissolution passed, 
Those neuters — those, I mean, of the Presbyterian interest, 
Who had not consented in our measures — 


iRETOisr, interrupting him. 
The King's death and the Army's measures. 


Ireton, no more of that ; name it not, 
Name it not ! "When memory calls it up, 
My heart is blanched, and what I have to do 
I do by halves — those hated hours shadow 
All my days. 


The wisdom of your acts 
Refutes all charges, and should dispel such thoughts.- 


It may be so; but enough of this. 

By interposing ray authority just when I did, 

The dispute I limited to a body 

Of men who, for reasons various, had ceased 

To be longer popular — call it as you may, 

My good fortune or my great political wisdom. 

My friends, let now a Council of State 

Be appointed, to watch over the peace and safety 

Of the Commonwealth, and superintend 

The present management of public affairs, 

In number thirteen — nine military and four civilians ; 

A Scriptural number, and vouchsafed to us 

By Him whom here Ave seek to serve. Sir Harry Vane, 

Pray you be one of us. 


Thank you, General ; though the reign 
Of the saints is begun, I shall defer my share 
Until I go to Heaven. 


Or to , as it best pleases you ; 


All have a right to choose their company. 

Beckoning them to one side.] 
Good Major Salloway, and Carew, my friend, 
Prithee, your care and counsel. I know not how 
I can sustain this weight now falls upon me. 
Thoughts of the awful consequences make me tremble. 
Free me, I prithee, from the great temptation 
Laid before me. Go ye, I pray, forthwith 
Unto Chief-Justice St. John and Mr. Selden, 
And together draw some instrument of government, 
Which may take the power out of my hauds. 


The way to free you from this temptation 

Is for you not to look upon yourself 

To be under it, but to rest persuaded 

That the power of the nation is in the good people 

Of England, as formerly it was. 


Thou speakest well ; 
My many cares at times obscure my thoughts. 
I pray you, then, summon onr chief officers 
To meet me at Whitehall forthwith, where they may 

What 'tvrere best to do. 


We will. 


Do it forthwith. 
'Tis well. Some private business calls me now — 
Prithee, attend to this. [Exeunt Carew t and Salloway. 

Ireton, read ye their thoughts'? 
We must be wary. 



Ay, and bold ; the power is yours. 


And I will keep it. I will conclude the treaty 

With the Portuguese Ambassador, suspend 

The four Judges do offend, and make 

Two new appointments ; nominate new Commissioners 

Of the Treasury and Admiralty ; continue 

The monthly assessments of • one hundred and twenty 

thousand pounds 
For an additional half year. For form's sake, 
I will submit it to my Council of State ; 
It will sanction it in the eyes of England. 
'Twere well, I think, too, for form's sake, 
That we and our Council of State 
Should nominate a Parliament 
Of holy, pious men. Did our ministers 
In the several counties send returns 
Of persons faithful, fearing God, 
And hating covetousness, who may be deemed 
Qualified for this high and important trust ? 
I'll choose, say, an hundred and fifty to serve for certain 

In the three kingdoms. 

IRETON, showing a list. 
They did — are here — and I have chosen them. 

cromwell, laughing. 
'Tis well — a goodlie 
If not Godlie company. There are an hundred and fifty, 

w T e, 
That is, you, my Ireton, and I, know to be true 
And faithful. You will observe 


They did appear personally at Whitehall 

On the Fourth Day of July, 1653 — 

This shall be hailed throughout the world 

As Freedom's Birthday. Attend on them ; 

Go you, and send me instant word how they conduct. 

\Exit Ireton. 
Enter the Quaker Merchant Fox.] 

Most worthy friend, 
What would st thou have ? A merchant prince, 
Most honored of God's instruments — link 
In the priceless chain of peaceful arts 
That bind all climes together — source 
Of England's glory — God's treasurer on earth — 
Trustee immaculate of the wealth He gives, 
In charity's sweet offices to dispense — 
Mid heaviest charges e'er has Cromwell's ear. 


My ship from India — her cargo priceless — 
Is by the Spaniards, in the Channel, taken. 


Your ship ! Truly thou say'st her cargo's priceless — 

5 Twas England's honor that she convoyed hither. 

And in the Channel too ! — at our very doors ! 

But what matters that ? Were it in farthest seas, 

Our flag should be immaculate. Their wealth 

Has made these Spaniards arrogant. 

'Twill prove the curse and ruin of their land — 

Misused, abused, the trust forgotten. 

Thou shalt be recompensed ten days from this ; 

Make out your charges; 'tis England's cause; 

Our Blake shall straightway seek their argosies. 

Monuments of your goodness fill the land, 

Which the most loses in your loss. 



My duty — nothing more — no praise in that — 
My habit and my home I have — 'tis all I need- 
The rest is for the State. 

So do I humbly take my leave. 


God's peace be with thee. [Mcit Quaker Fox. 

An Office?* enters and hands a note to Cromwell, saying, 
" From General Ireton, my Lord ;" then retires, 

Cromwell cdone, takes the note and reads. 

The Parliament are met — my goodlie, Godly 

Parliament — no, no, not mine, but Barebones'. 

What a name ! They would o'erturn all known forms 

Of law and government, would I but let them. 

I have failed indeed in this. They are worse 

Than were the Danes or Normans. Those fellows, 

Preaches, Feakes, and Powell, preach, that Cromwell 

Is the Man of Sin — the Old Dragon and the Beast 

Foretold in the Revelation. IVe had enough 

Of this fooling. Ireton ! Ireton, I say ! — 

There's terror in his looks and name — 

Iretox enters.~\ My son, go to the House, 
Forthwith — bid the members repair to Whitehall, 
And give back their authority into the hands 
Of him from whom they had received it. 
If these reformers, who are some thirty — 
I know them all — ask for a warrant, call in 
A company of soldiers ; take my own guard, 
If needs be ; clear the House, and hither bring 
The keys. It must be done — this the best way 
To do it. 



And shall be. 


He likes this service. 
What a stout heart that is ! My Oliver's was even such, 
But Richard's is a gewgaw for fair dames. 

Carew enters. 
General, the Military Council have decided 
That, finding Parliaments such unstable 
And unwieldy things, that you be solemnly 
Installed the Lord Protector of the Commonwealth 
Of England, Scotland, and Ireland, and do await 
Tour presence in Westminster Hall. They beg 
You'll pardon this lack of ceremony, 
But the State requires it. 


Thanks, my good friend ; 
I will attend, though I would rather not assume 
Fresh cares. \Exit Caeew. 

Ireton enters with Speaker, bringing keys. 


Ha! Gentlemen; welcome, Gentlemen ; 

With ci smile.~\ 
My son, you did escort them in due form. 


We would resign the power you conferred on us, 
Unworthy instruments, unequal to the task, 
And pray for your dismission. 


Xay, my good friend, 
Why so? How is this? You have scarcely entered 


Upon our service ; but if it needs must be> 
Why, it must be. I have appealed to God 
Before you already. I know it is a tender thing 
To make appeals to God. Then fare ye welL 
[Speaker exit one side; Cromwell anc? Ireton the other. 

Westminster Hall. 

A Chair of State, with a rich carpet and cushions. — A Commissioner of 
the Great Seal at each hand. — The Judges on both sides. — The Lord 
Mayor and Aldermen on the right, and the members of the Council on 
the left.— Triumphal Music. — Cromwell enters with a splendid retinue. 


My loving, honorable, and much honored friends, 
"Why would ye suronzon me, an humble citizen, 
To leave the calm and equal walks of privacy, 
For the toilsome and uneasy race of greatness ? 
I thank ye for the honors ye would confer ; 
But pray ye to confer them on one worthier. 


Cromwell's the name, the worthiest England 

Ever bore, to wear the honors that her people give. 


Here is the institute of Government, 
Duly sealed, and here am I to administer 
The oath gives unto England's sole and only use 
Her worthiest son, as Protector of the Realm. 

cromwell, raising his hand. 
Since such is your and the people's gracious will, 
Here do I swear, in all humility, 


Her honor to preserve by land and sea, 
From pole to pole. 

The Lords Commissioners deliver up to Cromwell the 
Purse and Seals. 


The purse and seals, your Highness ; 
Pointing to the Chair of State.'] And that your seat. 


This too, with London's love and loyalty, my sword. 


Nay, Sir, as Cromwell's friend, keep this. 

In greatest stress the Londoners e'er proved true ; 

So may I find them ever. 

Protector of the Realm — in all things King, save name ! 
The wide world envies me — the air is rent 
With praises of my deeds — each act a virtue, 
And many great acts mine that never yet 
I dreamed of. So runs the world ; a few short years 
Protector of the Realm, a few short minutes 
May be your span of life. But for this mail, 

[Strikes his breast. 
Some secret foe had long ere this probed 
My heart's mysteries, and unveiled to earth 
What Heaven only knows ; for all my deeds, 
Ay, even my motives, yet shall be unfolded 
To the world, though it may be not until 
Long hereafter ; but probed they will be. 
Regicide one age, the next I shall be lauded 
To the skies as Godlike, Freedom's Father! 
Strange destiny is mine — an humble wanderer 
In a savage clime, I thought to be, 


When he, whose head paid forfeit for the act, 

Compelled my sojourn here, and made me 

More than King ; for I've o'erleaped all wonted forms, 

And out of the line direct, though of royal blood, 

I reign entire master of the Realm — 

Its meanest and its mightiest, officers to my will. 

attendant, advancing. 
Ambassador of France, my Lord. 


Give him admittance. 


France sends her greeting unto the Lord Protector, 
And woos his friendship and his favor. 


We thank His Majesty, and trust the love 
Our people and ourselves now entertain 
For him may be preserved. Say this is 
From Cromwell unto Mazarin. Prithee, 
Your presence at our feast to-day. 
• Presenting him to Ladies.'] Our Lady Cromwell, 
And our friends, fair Sir. 

Officer hands a paper.] From Spain an Ambassador 
Attends. France and Spain — France or Spain — 
Now come the troubles of our greatness. 
Portugal too doth wait ; and from the Netherlands 
There is an embassy; the United Provinces 
Now sue for peace, on terms most favorable 
To us — which we will grant, for our great Blake » 
Has swept the seas even of Von Tromp 
And his masthead broom. The triumphs of our flag 
Shed a glory on our rule unequalled 


By the past- — if Cromwell lives, never to be equalled 

In the great hereafter. 

I'll have no foreign wars, our foes subdued 

Or peace insured ; for there are troublous tongues 

Enough at home. Though scarce established 

As their Lord Protector, idle, venomous spirits 

Do menace me — even the Preachers dare denounce me. 

The system I in Ireland adopted, speedily worked 

My ends ; I'll try it here. Ireton, I have heard 

That our late friend, Harrison, wags his tongue 

Against us. He was a master spirit in our cause ; 

May prove such against us, The Tower 

Were the safest place for him. There's likewise 

A stubborn, wrongheaded schoolmaster called Vowell, 

Who has been most treasonable in his course ; 

He is not of much note, and has few friends 

To feel revenge — let him be hanged — 

'Twill give their idle brains somewhat to muse 

Upon ; and that young fellow, Gerald, 

I've seen the boy, a murderer by his looks — 

Let him swing for it — be instant — 

No paltering now. \Exit Ireton. 

Faith, I would rather have taken 
A shepherd's staff than this Protectorship. 
My Genius hates this show of greatness. 
New England should have been my home ; 
No shadows would have crossed my pure intents. 
There the untutored savage I might have moulded 
In the true ways of life ; in nature and association 
They're prepared. Here, every tree 
And stone, ay, every star tells men of Princes 
And their pageantry. The history of all times 
Teaches of despots and despotic rule. 


Though for some short-lived season men may have tried 
Self-government, 'twas e'er to fall under an iron hand, 
That crushed them into obedience. 

I have been swept along 
By the swift current of fierce events, and find 
Myself upon a throne — a throne of cares and fears — 
My myrmidons, jealousy, hate, deceit, 
And all the fellest passions of the human heart. 
Men do not love me — why, they cannot say, 
Save that I have o'ertopped them. [Enter Ingoldsby. 

Ha ! Ingoldsby — 
What news ? 

Great discontent among 
Our quondam friends. 


Why so ? Have I not told them 
I would not be lord over them ; but one that is resolved 
To be a fellow-servant, to the intent 
Of this great affair ? 


True, true ; but now the House debated, whether 
They should consent to have the Government 
Vested in a single person and a Parliament, 
And carried it but by five voices. 
Enter Ireton.] 


Indeed ! what more ? 


One said, that as God had made him 
Instrumental in cutting down tyranny 
In one individual, so could he not endure 


To see the liberties of the nation shackled 
By another, whose right to the Government 
Could not be measured otherwise than by the length 
Of his sword, which alone had emboldened him 
To command, his commanders. 


And yet they thrust it on me. 
What more was said ? 


Another as the Prophet 
Unto Ahab said — " Hast thou killed and also 
Taken possession ?" 


Such words of me! I had not dreamed 
They thought it. Killed, did they say ? You know 
I did not do it ; it was ordained by them ; 
My signature wrung from a father's bleeding heart, 
At sight of his eldest son a corpse transfixed. 

If this is my reward 
For years of toil — for fondest hopes crushed 
At their consummation — for Heaven's own ways 
(Mine were then most pure), all set aside, 
And worldly courses taken — hereafter 
I will be ruler of myself and of this realm — 
Preserve my life, though at the cost of myriads. 
I have made England great, greater than e'er before, 
And I will rule. Ingoldsby, let them say on, 
Ay, gibe like monkeys — I tell you, Sir, 
The time will come when they will offer me 
The crown. Go you, and order three regiments 
To march into the city ; seize the most noisy 
Of these brawlers ; place a guard at the door 
Of the House, and lay this recognition 


On a table in the lobby, for their signature. 

I have foreseen all this, and now will hnow 

My friends. This binds them neither to propose 

Or consent to alter the Government 

As it is now settled in a single person 

And Parliament. I will have my spies 

In every regiment, in almost every house, 

And in the very bed-chamber of this Charles II., 

As they clepe him — at Cologne and at Paris. 

I have done with peace and rest — there is 

No rest for me but in the grave — the grave. 

This kingdom I will divide into military governments, 

To arrest, imprison, and bind over 

All dangerous and suspected persons, 

Without the power of appeal to any 

But the Protector himself and his Council ; 

And all who have borne arms for the King, 

Or were of the royal party, shall be 

Decimated. There will no longer be a cant 

Of liberty. They are not fit for it, 

Who fatten on distrust, and, gorged, 

Would fill the realm with it. There now are 

In the ports a hundred ships of various sizes ; — 

Penn and Venabies shall hasten to the settlements 

Of Spain and seize on them ; 

Thence to James River, and reduce to allegiance 

Unto me, those colonies which dare adhere 

To Charles, cleping themselves the "Old Dominion ;" 

I'll give them a new rule, whose seeds shall yet * 

OVrtop the world; — while Blake shall add 

To his well-won honors, and seize Spain's treasure-ships. 

France must be our friend, even though Spain 

Is our foe ; yet now proposes I should be seated 


On the throne. Ireton, go yon and give my order 

That Penruddock and Groves be beheaded at Exeter; 

Jones and his friends be hanged ; the residue 

Who were concerned in the rising at Salisbury, 

Be sent to Barbadoes and sold as slaves ! 

Issue my declaration, prohibiting 

All sequestered clergymen of the Church 

Of England from preaching or using the Liturgy, 

As minister^ either in public or private ; 

And command all Roman Catholic priests 

To quit the kingdom under pain of death. 

Forbid the publication in print of any news 

Whatever, without permission from the Secretary of State. 

There are three argosies in port, taken by Blake ; 

See that Friend Fox be recompensed — this done, 

The residue retain for England's honor. 

Thus Cromwell seeks redress. 

Send instantly an embassy to the Duke of Savoy, ' 

To intercede in behalf of the persecuted Vaudois. 

Our brother of France unites in this — we will it so. 

Then let him haste to Rome, with our command 

That all persecutions of God's elect shall cease, 

Or Cromwell's cannon's roar shall echo 

Through St. Angelo. \Exeunt. 

Enter Colonel Jephsox, Ashe, and Sir Charles Pack. 


My friends, what may we do to stay 

These plots against our General and ourselves, 

Which rise on every hand at every hour ? 


Make him our King ! — beseech him that he will be pleased 
To take upon himself the Government 


According to the ancient Constitution — 
Then will their hopes and plots be at an end. 


This was my thought ; and here have I prepared 

An humble address and remonstrance 

Of the knights, citizens, and burgesses now assembled 

In the Parliament of the Commonwealth, 

Praying lie will accept this power. 

The title I have left blank — shall we present it ? 


Ay, and fill the blank with King. We'll find him 
In the Tapestrie Chamber. Come, we'll present it 
On the instant. . \Exeunt. 



Enter Cromwell, Lambert, Fleetwood, and Desbor 


01), what a troublous thing is greatness ! 

I once knew peace — sweet peace of mind — but it is fled 

Forever. There is no safety now for me 

From dastard cut-throats, save an armed guard, 

And ail the attendants make kings slaves. 

Free in my nature, I would have been free, 

Free as the wild deer roves New England's woods. 

He stayed me in my course of usefulness, 

And made me what I am now, what I am yet 

To be. Fleetwood my son, my brother Desborough, 

And my friend Lambert — they would have me king, 

These lawyers and civilians — what think ye 


Of this name ? The power I have is greater 
Than any king's for ages past 


Nay, Cromwell, entertain it not ; 
There is more matter than you perceive in this ; 
Those who would put this on you, sure, are no enemies 
To Charles Stuart. 


Methinks it would draw ruin on yourself 
And friends. General, eschew this act. 


Oh, ye are a couple of precise, scrupulous fellows. 
Lambert, what say you ? 


As do these friends, your kinsmen, — 
Touch not the diadem. 


Well, well, I would do naught without consent 

Of the army. Hasten to the House, and put them off 

From doing any thing further in this matter. 

But lo, whom have we here? 

Eater Speaker and others, 


My Lord, herewith do I present to you 
The humble petition and advice of the Parliament, 
Setting forth the advantages of regal government/ 
And the nation's confidence in a new Sovereign— 

Yourself their choice. 


My gentle friends, I thank you, but must decline. 


speaker, presenting the diadem. 
Here is the diadem. 


What ! would ye tempt me 
With this golden bawble, which at the best 
Is but a feather in a man's cap ? I should not be 
An honest man, did I not tell you that I 
Cannot accept of the government, nor undertake 
The trouble and charge of it. I, who have tried it 
More than any one — indeed, I cannot undertake 
The government with the title of King. 
This receive, I pray you, as my answer 
To this great and weighty business.* 


This must we to the Parliament relate, 
Who'll much regret refusal to their will. 


Give them my thanks ; — as Lord Protector 
I will rule the realm as God directs me. 
'Tis a weighty trust ; I pray ye lighten it 
As best ye may, by your collected wisdom, 
Unto which I'll bow, so long as England's welfare 
Is your aim. My thanks to one and all ; 
My friends, at even I will meet ye. \Exeunt. 

The diadem of England mine ! Her fleets, 
Her fortresses, her coffers, armies, all are mine ! 
All save her people's love — that which I most 
Had prized — and yet they'd have me take 
The name of King — that bane of greatness. 
I sought it not, and ne'er will own it. I have made 
England great, Scotland and Ireland too, 
And won a name which shall be mine alone 
* Cromwell's words. 


For every age throughout the world. I made 

My people free — redressed their wrongs, and placed 

The power in their own hands — but ah, alas ! 

I found them ill prepared for self-government ; 

They are so trammelled by old ties and customs. 

Whitehall and Westminster, St. James, the Tower, 

All speak of regal rule; old laws and usages 

Are seared upon their hearts ; they cannot walk 

In the new paths I've marked ; paths must be laid out 

In a new land, where there is naught but freedom 

To be seen. There in Xew England I might have fixed 

The People's Rule— a rule that shall o'ermaster 

Every other form, and last till the last trump 

Shall sound, if men but unto themselves be true. 

Ah ! that dread tertian ague seizes now ! 

Why comes this sickness on me at this hour ? 

Thou bleeding form, thou canst not say I plucked 

Thy diadem to perch it on my brow. Years 

Now have numbered their troublous minutes o'er, 

And yet thou visitest me, thou murdered King. 

I will descend unto your charnel-house, 

And gaze upon your slumbers — peaceful slumbers. 

Shall such be mine ? [Takes a light. 

Iretost enters.] Ha! Ireton ! what now ? 
Thy brow doth lower portentous as the thunder-cloud. 


An old and faithful soldier of your guard 
Craves instantly the Lord Protector's ear. 


Give him admittance. He should have said 
His General's. I hate these titles from my long-tried 


Soldier enters.'] Ha ! what wouldst thou, my brave 
fellow ? 


Full credence to my tale, and instant action, 

To cut short a deed too dreadful to be thought on. 


What deed ? Speak ! speak ! — how every tale unmans 
me ! 


One Dr. Hewett, Sir Henry Slugsby, and he 
Who was brave Colonel Sexby, with him 
Who is called Snydercombe, gave me this purse 
And these bright jewels, in order to procure 
Admittance to the chapel at Whitehall. 


They are my friends. You did accept and gave it them. 

Was it well done ? I saved your life at peril 

Of mine own at Drogheda, striking aside 

The pike was at your throat — and you'd risk mine 

For a paltry bribe ! 


Ay, those wild Irish — 


Nay, nay, not so ; — they are a gallant and a misused race. 
See their condition now under just laws ; 
Their land is teeming with productiveness. 
This I, Cromwell, did. But for your story. 


Into the chapel they have but now borne 
Combustibles, and placed a match to secure 


The conflagration of the palace before midnight, 
While they, with arms prepared, shall shut you up 
Within the flames. 


Oh ! horrible, most horrible. Ireton, 

Take this ring. Seize them at once ; let instant death 

Be theirs, if that his tale prove true. 


I have them, one and all. Fleetwood and Desborough 
Now await your will. \JEhit. 


My gallant guard, take this — a trifling gift. 

Your self-approval be your best reward. 

But for myself, I'll make you captain in my guard, 

With treble pay. Attend on General Ireton 

In this melancholy task. \Exit soldier. 

Who would be great, if blood must be its price? 

Or I must let these bloodhounds tear me 

Limb from limb, or wade myself in blood. 

Charles, Charles, thou art avenged! Could I, 

I would not wake you into life. 

I almost wish 
To lay me by thy side. I will once more 
Look on thee in thy rest. 

[ Takes the light, and retires slowly. 



Vault — King Charles's Tomb. 

Elizabeth Cromwell enters, dressed in white, toith flowers, 
and, singing, streios them round, and lags them on the 

Thou sleepest in peace, thou murdered innocence ! 

I told my Charles I would do this. Nightly I've decked 

His couch with flowers most fair, year after year. 

Alas ! poor king — father to my heart's Lord. 

This tender office ere long, I feel, must fall 

To other hands. Sleep on — sleep on — sleep on ! 

A step — who comes ? It is my father — what does he here ? 

I must be gone. 

[Elizabethans round to one side, then across the back, 
and escapes. 

cromwell enters. 

I heard a voice — methought a seraph's voice, 

And perfumed air did greet me as I came. 

Do angels watch his bier ? What ! flowers 

Blooming all about his marble couch — the tenderest 

Springing from it. He sleeps in peace, 

Or sure these sweet attendants all would fail 

And fade away — theg are the ministering spirits 

Of the blest. If such his happy end, 

Why may I not look for a release 

From all life's cares and toils ? 

Was his hand bloodless ? 

Mine's incarnadined ! They w^ho sought his fall, 

And now seek mine — these demi-devils — 

That they might gain their ends, sure forged the tale 

That my son's death was planned and urged 


By hiru, that they might damn "my soul. 
King, kinsman, royal master, rouse from thy slumbers, 
And smile on me forgiveness ! Think of the agony 
A father feels, his butchered son before him. 

Opens the lid of tomb.'] 

What ! can it be that envious time has leashed 

Its ravenous worms, that thus thou lookest 

As when thou livedst, and on thy face that smile 

Thou worest, uttering thy last "Remember!" 

Men doubt thy meaning — alas ! I read it well ; 

For ne'er have I forgotten thee. By day, by night, 

At feast, at fast — waking or dreaming, in court 

Or camp, in peaceful council or dread carnage — 

There, before me, ever rose thy august head, 

And, bleeding, lisped " Remember." [A shriek. 

Hark, that piercing shriek! — that seraph's voice — my 

child's — 
It is my child's. She comes — what would she here ? 

Elizabeth enters wildly. 

Blood, blood, blood — nothing but blood ! 

My dearest brother's, my most honored king's ; 

And now my reverend, reverenced friend's 

Must swell the turgid stream. Who are you 

Have usurped my place, and keep your vigils 

By this sainted form ? Hence, hence, hence ! 

This is my fond prerogative, given me 

By my loving lord, that should have been — 

The king that yet shall be. Come, come, I pray thee, 

Come ! I know thee not ; and yet, there is a majesty 

In thy mien betokens power and compels my reverence. 

Come, come ; thou yet mayst save him. Come, this way, 

This way. [She, retiring, beckons to him. 


cromwell, following. 
Oh ! woful sight. It hath o'erpowered me. 

Scene changes to banqueting hall. Elizabeth enters^ beck- 
oning to Cromwell, who folloics. 

My child, my child, what means this frenzy ? 
Whither, say, whither wouldst thou lead me ? 
What, what wouldst thou ? 

Elizabeth, looking wildly. 
Blood, blood ! No, no, not blood ; that thou canst give 

But life, dear life — the life, once taken, gone 
Forever, never, never to be returned. 

Awakening to consciousness.] 
Father ! is't thou, my father ? my fond, my doting father ? 
My mind has wandered ; but I know you now. 
The child of thy tender love kneels for a boon — 
The boon of an old man's life — a life worth 
But a few brief years at best. Thou knowest 
What 'tis to die. I saw you there — I know 'twas you — 
Where death sweet office long hath given me. 


Ah me ! ah me ! How all my honors shrink 

To nothingness, my glories fade from sight, 

And memory pictures horrors to my view ! 

What is it thou askest, my fair, though faded child ? 


Ah ! now thou art my father. Tender tones, 
Long, long unheard, though never yet forgotten, 
Are ushered in by smiles — my father's smiles, 
The smiles were sweetest to my infant heart, 
Though, to my woman's, strangers. Why wert thou 


Ever great ? Was to be goodness not enough for you ? 
Give me his life — my friend's — old Dr. Hewett's. 
He has been guilty of no crime, I know. 


Crime ! thou sweet innocent. Thy life was doomed. 
Was there no crime in that ? Thy mother's, sister's, 
Brothers', father's — all ! He would have made 
Whitehall — one hecatomb. 


Oh, horrible ! Art sure ? I thought that he loved me. 
I loved him ever. 


Most sure. Thy uncle, Desborough — - 
Thy brothers, Fleetwood, Ingoldsby, and Ireton, 
Took him and others in the very act, 

And now they die — 
Thunder heard.] 
Hark ! how the elements are rent at bare recital 
Of their dread intent ! The lightning quivers 
Through these vaulted domes, and horrid echoes 
Chase from room to room. 


Their shrieks ! their dying shrieks ! Ah me ! ah me ! 
Father, I have borne much — could have borne more ; 
But this his treachery takes such horrid form, 
I shrink at thought of it. My heart ! 
My Charles ! my brain ! 

Lady Cromwell, Lady Lambert, Ingoldsby, eider as she 
is swooning in Cromwell's arms. 


My child! my child! \They place her on a couch. 



cromwell, sinking down by the couch. 
My child ! my child ! Support her, Heaven, 
And preserve her senses. 

Ha ! Ingoldsby, what news ? 
Thunder heard again."] 


The elements are racked ; 
Disjoined, our loftiest buildings topple to the dust ; 
St. Paul's spire, reeling, groans. The rooks 
And daws make black the air, and even 
The tiny martlet quails the heart 
With its shrill cries, driven from its ancestral 
Moss-grown home. 


What day is this, that man and nature, 

Thus conjoined, do rack earth to its foundations? 


My lord, it is your day, your own auspicious day— 
The third day of September ! 

Ah ! is it so ? [Turning to Doctor. 

How does my child ? 

Elizabeth murmuring low words.] 


The wild delirium feasts upon her brain, 
And burns up every sense, save some dark, 
Dread memories. She raves of Charles — of blood. 


My dearest daughter and fair nature — both 

Whom I've best loved and worshipped, next to God — ■ 


Both crazed and mad ! 

Ah ! my old sickness comes upon me. 
" O Lord ! thy miserable servant 
Bows to thy will in all humility, 
And craves thy grace. Bless thou this people. 
Thou hast made me a mean instrument 
To do them some good, and Thee, I trust, 
Some service. Many there are have set 
Too high a value on me, though others wish, 
And would be glad of, my decease. 
However thou dost dispose of me, my Lord, 
Continue to do good to and abide 
With them. Give them consistency of judgment — 
One heart and mutual love, to go on 
With the work of reformation, and make 
The name of Christ, a name at which every knee 
Shall bend and every head shall bow, 
Glorious throughout the world. Teach those 
Who look too much upon thy instruments, 
To more upon Thyself depend. Pardon all those 
(They are thy people) would trample upon the dust 
Of this poor worm, for our blessed Redeemer's sake."* 

Iretox enters, taking his hand.] 

How now, my Ireton, 
How is my child ? 


She is dead ! 

cromwell, caressing Elizabeth. 
Dead! nay, nay. 

Gone ! gone ! gone home ! 

I too shall go. 
Her sainted spirit heralds mine. 
* Guizot. 


My friends — 
Let Richard be ray heir. Guard ye him well. 
At ray interment, I pray you, have no vain ceremonials. 
Tis but the form that dies. 

Publish to the world that Cromwell's last words 
Were, that 

" Where the Spirit of the Lord is, 
There is Liberty," 

And that 'tis cradled 
In New England now, to grow a Hercules 
Shall bestride all earth. 

So Cromwell's teachings yet shall rule the world. 
Mankind shall say, in times to come, that here died 
a The best thing ever England did."* 

A fearful peal of thunder and flash of lightning. Ireton 

struck dead. 

Hark to that fearful peal, 

As though heaven crashed 
Seeing Ieeton.] 
Thy knell, my Ireton. 

Thus only couldst thou die. 

A brilliant light from above thrown upon Cromwell, kneel- 
ing by Elizabeth. His head drops on her form. 

The Gates of Glory open stand, 

And I am summoned. f 

Curtain falls sloioly. 

* Carlyle. 

f The Court of France went into mourning, wearing dark-blue velvet. 

— Guizot 




Thomas A'Becket. 
Sir John of Salisbury, 

bury, ) . 
' [ His : 

~j friends. 
Sir Peter of Blois, 

Albert and Hugh, his attendants. 

Henry II. of England. 

Lord Fitzurse, Henry's favorite. 

Lords De Broc, De Morevtlle, De Tracy. 

Sir Richard Brito. 

Reginald De Warrenne. 

g-eryase de cornhill. 

Earls Leicester and Cornwall. 

Bishops of London, Salisbury, Worcester, "Winchester, and York. 

Sir Richard de Hastings, Grand Prior of England's Knights Templars, 

then TO years of age. 

Philip of Rome, Legate. 

Sir Guy de Lusignan, Knight of Flanders. 

Knights of France. 

Lucille, Niece of A'Becket. 

Matllde, Cousin to Lucille. 

Lords and Ladies. 

Reign of Henry II. of England. A. D. 11 63-11 10. Scene lies in England. 
Flanders, and France. 



Sea-shore after a storm — Fragments of a wreck. 

Sir Richard Brito and Lord Fitzurse enter from oppo- 
site sides. 


What means this haste, my Lord ? 


Hast thou not heard ? 
A'Becket and the King are foes. 


A'Becket and the King ! those late dear friends ! 
They cannot long be foes : A'Becket is too great 
Not to forgive his wrongs ; the King too weak, 
In these wild troublous times, in men of mighty intellect- 
He feels it, Sir ; we feel it, Sir, though we do hate 
The man who so o'ertops us. Ton, in the brief recital, 
Teach this fact — saying, " A'Becket and the King 
Are sworn foes" — see, how the priest comes first ; 
So stands he in the thoughts of every man. 


And yet I've heard that he was humbly born, 
But rose so fast, that, like the young fledgling, 
Soars too high at first — singeing his wings 


He weakened them, and now, full grown, 
They will not bear him up — hunter and hawker 
As he is — this churlish priest, born for the torment 
Of the Anglo-Norman race. A tradesman's son, 
No more — 


A tradesman's son ! Know, my young Lord, 
His father was a warrior too, as honest, Sir, 
As brave — and honesty makes any trade 
An honor ; and more, his mother, tho' of another clime, 
Owned gentle blood. When a mere boy, 
He was sent to Rome by Theobald, Archbishop 
Then of England, and straightway from His Holiness 
Bore letters, prohibiting the crowning 
Of the late King Stephen's son — thus firmly 
Seating Henry on his throne : — thereafter 
Soon appointed England's High Chancellor 
And prince Henry's preceptor. Courtier complete, 
Unbounded revenues, with seven hundred knights 
And twelve hundred horsemen in his pay — 
A regal state — he made the campaign 
To Toulouse. Next he was to Paris sent, to treat 
Of an alliance between the young daughter 
Of France's king and our Prince Henry. Ay, and re- 
With her to England. He never failed. 
A tradesman's son, you say — his craft he ne'er forgot. 
Then Theobald died — whom to the primacy 
Could Henry raise but him, the great A'Becket? 
First primate sprung from Anglo-Saxon race ; 
Honored and treasured by all of Saxon blood ; 
Received by Welsh with the most loud acclaim, 
Their first Lord Primate under Norman rule — 
For though I hate him, I must own him great. 


The King till now did love him well — 

What is the cause 
Of strife ? 


Unto the Pope he hath complained 
Of the laity's infringement of the Church's rights, 
And his assent refusing to the Constitutions 
Of Clarendon, has fled to France. The King 
At Northampton holds his court to-morrow ; 
His counsellors are all summoned. 


This I for many a day have feared. 
Go you not to the chase ? our Liege at noon 
Rides forth. Yet stay — who have we here ? Lord Salis- 
Storm-worn and sad ! 

Enter Lord Joh^ of Salisbury. 

You here, my Lord, in this dark hour ? 
Methought the air of France ere this did fan your brow. 
What news from Lord A'Becket ? 


None, none ; but adverse winds 
Have raged since England's Primate set sail 
For France. How fares our Liege to-day ? 


Right well. 
He's for the chase at noon, whither I haste 
To wait on him — let's on, Fitzurse — Farewell, Lord Salis- 
bury ! 

[Brito and Fitzurse Exeunt. 


Farewell, most valiant lords — mad King, sad minister ; 
Oh ! where will this day's business end,, his favorite 


Long, now fallen and fled ! These Norman lords 

Ne'er loved the Saxon priest — but his great genius 

Bowed them to his will. Queen Eleanor 

Never loved her King — hates him — 

While she lives, she'll never cease to work their ill. 

Meet helpmate has she proved to England's King ; 

Her uncle's mistress and the Turk's light of love — 

For this, repudiated by Louis " the young." 

Our Norman King, to rule her wide domains, 

After six weeks made her his queen, 

Bartering his honor and his happiness. 

I see her hand in this ; she wooed A'Becket's love, 

And won his deep despite — return like this, 

No woman e'er forgave. 

Here have I sought 
Since yesternight for those would brave the fury 
Of the storm, and bear these letters to my wronged friend, 
England's great Primate — great in his youth 
In feats of arms, learned in legendary lore, 
Foremost in the court and camp, and first in Henry's favor 
Till he bade him wear the Primate's robes — 
Then he foretold this hour ! It's now three days 
Since he set sail for France, in all which time 
A tempest fierce hath raged, with winds adverse 
To him — as though fate would not he should leave 
His land. But lo ! a sail ! Mayhap it bears him back. 
I'll to their aid. [Exeunt. 

Sir Peter of Blois enters, his garments wet and soiled. 


A'Becket shipwrecked on his native shore ! 
He who hath piloted through so many a storm ! 
It augurs ill for him. Is there no end 
To his great cares ? Alas ! I fear me, none, 


For e'en the elements seem opposed to him. 
Xo sooner had we left this mighty realm, 
Albion's white cliffs slumbering in virgin beauty, 
Than, robed in mist, all faded from our view, 
And fierce old ocean, with a lion's roar, 
Struck panic 'mid the seamen. So we who hoped 
In France to feast to-day, must break our fast 
In turmoil and in strife. 

Salisbury enters. 
Who comes ? What! you, my friend? 


Welcome, thrice welcome, tho' in such sad plight ! 
Thank Heaven, you have weathered out the storm. 
How fare you, Sir, and our great friend, A'Becket ? 


As well as ever, though in wisdom wiser. 

We left the port with favoring gales, 

But soon the scene was changed ; an angry sea 

Tossed our poor bark, like bittern, o'er its waves, 

While she with true heart breasted all their force, 

And still obedient to the helmsman's rule, 

After three days' fierce conflict with the storm, 

Though stranded on yon shore, is sound as ever, 

Ready again to cope with them. 

This was for us, my friend. It bids us brave 

The storms of fate, though we are backward driven 

By their force. What did you here ? 


I waited 
Till the storm should lull, these papers to dispatch to you. 
The King had just rode forth unto the chase, 
When news was ta'en him, A'Becket and his friends 
Had fled to France. Thereon he ordered 


A great council to be held at Northampton, 

And questioned why he left — asking 

If the same realm could not contain them both. 


No, Sir John, never while things are thus ; 
A'Becket must yield or combat with him manfully ; 
The last it must be. There is no choice but this. 

Heard I aright ? Gone forth unto the chase ? 
How can he wear a heart so light in hour 
Like this ? 5 Tis ever thus among the great 
In power, that one man's sorrow proves 
Some other's joy. So he now revels — riots 
In his misery. Who have been with you 
Since I left ? 


Young Lords Fitzurse and Brito. 


Fitzurse ! You entertained him as a friend ; 
Though in the service of a foe, his heart 
Inclines to us. 


Even so methinks, my Lord ; 
But come — let's to A'Becket's home, where all 
Do anxiously wait news of him. 


We will — when there, we must prepare a numerous suite 

To wait on him to Northampton. 'Twere well 

To make a goodly show of friends. [Exeunt. 


Gothic Hall. 

a'becket — alone. 
So much for being willing slave to power ! 
Had I but sought my pleasure and my weal, 
Forgetting bis, whose shadow I have been, 
±s ot his thought my thought, his every wish my act, 
All had been well ! 

But no, not so ; I, to enhance 
His glory, wealth, and power, to jealous envy 
Have exposed myself, and now must fall 
Even like Lucifer, lost in the radiance 
I have heralded ! 

Be firm, my heart, be firm ! 
'Tis envy speaks ! 

The tale while told sounds loudly, 
But palls when probed, bringing dishonor 
On the babbler's head ! 

'Tis weightless as the story 
The old man tells, walking in second childishness. 
Why should I be moved ? Silence, thou petty voice, 
I will not deign to note their idle words. 
But, ha ! a step — 

No gentle, sylphlike step ; 
I hoped my child's. They do approach — 

Retires one side.] I'll note them here. 

Fitzurse enters, looking round. 
How reverend is the air pervades these halls ! 
How like their great inhabitant, time farrowed ! 
Firm they stand, ready to cope with fiercest elements. 


Oh ! 'tis a noble house ! fit home for such a heart ; 

Would it were tuned to softer measures, 

That his step might move in harmony 

With his king's. Gone, gone to France. I would 

It were not so — for something tells me that my fate 

And thine, great soul ! are linked together. 

A voice ! a step ! [A'Becket conies forward. 

What ! thou, our Lord Archbishop ! 
Welcome, my reverend father, to your own land ! 
No home like this for you. 

Much moved.~\ Thanks, thanks, my son. 

My Liege — How fares my Liege ? 


Well ; save in wanting you. 
My King ! my King ! to think it should be thus ! 
But he required I should assume this office — 
And I obeyed amid the formal greetings 
Of the Lord Bishops, who ever hated me. 
Then with my office I straightway changed 
My robes, my habits, and my home ; fasting 
Where I had feasted ; no more proud Norman's favorite ; 
Saxon born, I was the people's friend. 

But stay, whom have we here ? 

Matilde and Lucille enter^ with cloaks on. 
matllde, embracing him. 

My uncle, my dear uncle ! 

What ! bravest thou the storm ? 


Angelic maids ! 


a'becket, embracing Lucille, 
Thou too, my fair Lucille ! What did you there ? 


I sought, with dear Matilde, tidings of you, my Lord. 

FiTztmsE, aside. 

And then, to wend to heaven. 
My blessings be with you. 

Daughters, my Lord Fitzurse ! 


Fair ladies, at your service. 

Fitzltrse, Matilde, and Lucille retire one side; on the 
other enter Richard de Hastings and Phillp of Rome, 
with attendants and great show of friends. 


Our service, my Lord Archbishop. 

Aside.] This Norman Lord ! 

To them.] You're welcome, Sirs. 

Pray, what may be your errand ? 
A noble one it should be, that is borne 
By the Grand Prior of England's Knights Templars. 


'Tis from your King I come ; grieved deeply 

By your hasty course, and much moved withal, 

His language is, " That his loyal subjects 

Ever observe his will ; " — that he requires 

Your consent to these the Constitutions 

Of Clarendon. [Produces scroll. 

TJien reads — ] 
" Which do provide, that all control of church as well as 


state, should be intrusted to the civil courts. Her clerks, 
accused of any crime, be tried by them. No clergy leave 
the realm without consent of King. That excommunicates 
should not be bound to give security for their continuance 
in some fixed abode. That all appeals, in causes spiritual, 
be carried from the Primate to the King, making his judg- 
ment final. That the Archbishops, Bishops, and other spirit- 
ual dignitaries should be regarded as Barons of the realm, 
possess their privileges and be subjected to the burdens of 
that rank — to attend the King in his Great Councils and as- 
sist at all trials criminal. The revenues of vacant Sees to 
belong to the King ; and that the clergy no longer pretend 
to the right of enforcing payment of debts contracted by 
oath or promise, but should leave these lawsuits, equally 
with - other, to the determination of the civil courts ; and 
that the sons of villeins be not clerks ordained without their 
lord's consent." 


Requires he this ? My Lords, you know not what you ask ; 
Go, raze our churches, chapels, convents, ay, our homes, 
Expel the clergy from his vast domains, 
And you could do no worse ! 

Nor is his message 
Couched in gentle words, although, my Lord, 
In your delivery it loses its sharper part ; 
Still would I that you had not borne it. 
Your office is not raised in my esteem — 
Degraded to the messenger of an angry King, 
For passion urges this, and as kings are 
Above their fellow-men, so should they be 
Above their frailties ; but I would learn 
What further he designs. 


Pray, be not moved, my noble Lord Archbishop : 
First, he commands you, his late Primate — 


a'becket, hastily. 
His late Primate ! who may lie be ? 
Who was the Primate is the Primate still. 


Such was his word, and he requires you surrender 
Instantly the Castles of Eye and Berkham, 
With all their honors, and deliver up 
The culprit, now in your hands, charged 
With such grave offence, in wedding 
Lord Rupert's daughter. 

Unequal birth his only fault — would at some mightier's 

No graver lay ! does he so soon forget fam'd Rosamond, 
So fair ! so frail ! the only daughter of De Clifford, 
Our great Saxon Lord, the prop and stay 
Of his old age, degraded to the leman 
Of his Norman King, to whom he was too faithful ? 
Accursed was the day when Harold fell, 
For sin hath shadowed all our ways since then ! 
But stay, bear this from A'Becket of Canterbury 
To Henry of England, King but by accident 
Of birth : say that I neither will surrender aught, 
Nor yield unto his will. 

Whence is his power 
That he should trample upon me, in all 
His equal, save in honors ? 


My Lord Archbishop, pray be advised ; 
Beware a breach with King so powerful. 

Philip of Rome, we, Anglo-Saxon born, 
Are free by nature, as the wind that blows ; 


We bow no suppliant knee to power, 

Save 'tis the jiower of mind! 

The poorest hind may bear the proudest head 

That walks un sceptred through the land. 

Genius may rear her throne beneath the hovel's roof, 

And there her worshippers in crowds will kneel. 

I am the people's friend, the lor dungs' foe, 

When arrogance marks their steps — go, Sirs, 

And tell the King I will not yield ! 


I fear, Archbishop, this is ill advised ; 

He is enraged with what has passed already. 

a'becket, much moved. 
Well, let him be enraged : what's that to me ? 
Why should I heed his anger ? Leave him awhile, 
And he'll grow calm and cool. The hardest steel 
Not long retains its heat ; the mettled steed 
Will soonest tamely yield, outworn by his own spirit. 


Those honors, my dear Lord, they are of mighty value. 
Pray be advised ! We would not have you lose 
Your high estate, and all its great attendants. 

a'becket, aside. 
They are moved, the coward hearts ! 'Tis for themselves 
They fear. My privileges curtailed, where are their own ? 

My high estate! my honors ! Who can disrobe me of them? 
They were born with me, with me shall die ! My office 
I would resign as easily as I lay aside 
This robe — [aside.] In faith, I find that it is somewhat 

I would a newer, if not plainer guise. 



All England, Sir, would mourn your loss. 

And so she should, for England holds me in her chains ; 
I am the veriest slave that ever lived. 
~No mother ever felt more pangs, than I 
For England — there's not a churl in all the land, 
But I am bound to him by bands of adamant, 
My heart-strings webbed in his — 

King's gifts I value not. 
To Philip of Rome.] 
What say you, Prelate ? 


Give him his way. 

Never ! 

So help me Heaven ! 

Enter Earls of Leicester and Cornwall. 

What would ye, noble Sirs ? 


That you should let King Henry have his will. 

You too, my Lords ! I had hoped else than this. 
In you I had confided, till the waters rose 
E'en to their highest height. 

Aside.] Ah ! well I know 

A dove's upon the wing, comes from a storm-proof ark. 

I may not give him way — for nothing then will satisfy. 
The Barons all are his — the Bishops, overawed, 
Dare not oppose his will. Leicester and Cornwall, 
Ye know not what you do. 


Hastings casts himself on his knees before A'Becket. 


Father, upon my knees, 
I do beseeech you yield. I never knelt before 
To any man. 


Arise, and never kneel again, 
Save unto God. [Hastings rises. 

What judgment tells me's wrong, 
Entreaties never will make right. 


If you regard your or your Church's safety, 
Provoke him not — 'twere vain, my Lord — fruitless, 
All opposition. He, on his purpose bent, 
Will have revenge on all who dare oppose. 

My Lord, you know me not. I have no fears — 
To yield my will, of all things, most I dread. 
A dangerous precedent it would be 
Both to myself and King ; for unto me 
Succeeding trials would each easier seem, 
And I should yield, until my resolution 
All was lost — while unto him 'twould be 
Removal of the sole restraint upon his lawless will. 
My Lords, I love my King (we were as brothers 
Till this hapless hour), and cannot see him leap 
Into the gulf of his mad hot desires. 

\Lords confer aside. 
a'becket, aside. 
Should I now yield, what will my country gain ? 
Yet is it wise, beggared to be of power, — 
That which, of all things, least I'd bear to lose ? 
I cannot, will not, whatsoe'er the cost. 



My Lord, you are alone in this. 


My Lord ! 
'Tis virtue ! and I would rather be alone 
With her, than compassed round by all the hosts 
Of vice. Of all my friends, are there none left ? 
Not one. [Aside.] The wise man to the whirlwind bows 
His head. 

[Aloud] I will attend the Court. 

Farewell! farewell! 
[Exit Lords on one side — A'Becket and friends on the 

other side.] 


Grand Council Room at Northampton — Throne with steps — Range of 

seats for Lords. 


Where are your thoughts, Fitzurse ? 


In heaven. 


In heaven ! that's strange, indeed, in you. 
What took them there ? 


The sight of one newly come thence 
To earth — the fairest being ever eye beheld. 


Indeed ; whose house may't be is worthy such 
A visitant ? 


Thou'lt rival me, I fear. 



Indeed, not I ; who is this paragon ? 


None other than A'Becket's niece. 


A'Becket's niece ! 
Banish that thought, my Lord. The King will frown 
On this new fancy. 


Well ! let him frown ! 
I live not in the fear of kingly ire. 


Love makes you bold, young Lord. Oh, clip its wings 
Before it takes too wild a flight — 

Lo, where he comes, 
And angered too, 'twould seem. 


'Tis with A'Beeket. [Aside*] Oh cruel, cursed fate ! 
That my youth's follies do compel this service 
To the King, while fair Lucille, A'Becket's niece, 
Reigns my heart's queen. [Aloud.] My Liege. 
Sinter Henry and his Court. lie ascends the throne. 


Where stays this priest ? Summon him hither on the in- 
stant — 
Kings wait not on their subjects' pleasure. 


He comes, my Liege, clothed in his robes of office 
As Lord Archbishop — bearing the silver cross. 


Why comes he thus ? 


It is St. Stephen's Day. 



So hath it been for years, yet never came he thus. 
Bishop of London, preside you here. 

My Lords temporal, 
Attend on me — the judgment we will await 
Within — or I to be the King shall cease, 
Or he to be Archbishop. 
As Henry leaves the throne A'Becket enters, holding the 
silver cross before him, and takes his seat in silence; 
Ms friends behind him, cdl magnificently attired* 


My Lord Archbishop, why do you come 
Thus armed with the silver cross ? 


"lis in defiance 
Of our Liege, your coming thus into his Court. 
But he has a sword whose point is sharper far 
Than that of your pastoral staff. 
Where is my King ? He should preside to-day ; 
'Tis so prescribed by " Customs of the Realm." 


Displeased with your approach in such unseemly mode, 
He doth pass judgment in the inner Court. 

Unseemly mode ! the Church protects her own — 
She is my Counsellor — unto her I trust. 
Justice hath fled this realm. [Leicester enters. 


My Lord, enraged, he swears 
He'll be revenged. Oh pray, have pity 
On yourself and brethren. Provoke him now 
No more. 

22 thomas a'becket. [act I. 

What words are these before the Great Council 
Of the realm ! 
Aside.] Nay, rather let him not provoke me more. 

Cornwall enters. 


It is determined, by the King's privy council, 
You be impeached of perjury and high treason. 
The first, in that you observe not the Constitutions 
Of Clarendon— the last, in that you disobey 
His orders. 


What ! have I then no friends ? 


Tou have your King, for this he doth reject, 

And but demands that you shall subject stand 

Unto the Court's judgment, in the pecuniary charges. 

This, too, I do refuse — the judgment 
Of no temporal court will I obey. 

Fitzurse enters.] What more ? 


My Lord, the King's permission 
By the Bishops is besought, that, on the score of perjury, 
They to Rome, against you, may appeal. To this 
He doth consent. 


The Bishops, say you ? 
Am I then prejudged without a hearing ? 
'Tis enough, I mark what you do say. 

Ay, mark it well. 'Tis fitting, very fitting, 
You, whose features wear her lineaments, 


Whom Henry wronged, as me, he wrongeth now, 
Should bear this message of his tyranny — 
Thus searing our wrongs upon my heart. 
Alas ! poor Rosamond ! 


The Peers, besides, do you pronounce 
Guilty of perjury and high treason ; 
But still, the alternative allow 
Of rendering your accounts, and settling 
Any balance now against you. 

Do this, my Lord, 
Or hear from me your sentence. 

a'becket, starting and rising. 
My sentence, ere you've tried me ? Why, I 
Can charges bring will crush you with their sounding, 
Though ye are backed by hosts of friends, 
While I've but one — my well-known " Truth," 
Which is far stronger in its single strength 
Than all King Henry's power. § 

Tho' I have ventured 
On an unquiet sea, I'll brave its utmost fury. 
The adder is not malignant, yet, too closely press'd, 
May turn and sting the heel. 

My sentence ! Ye vain, proud Lords, ye have not words 
In your vocabulary to frame my fitting judgment ; 
Ye minions of a King who has roused a lion 
That he dare not face ! 
My sentence, Sirs, is written in the skies ; 
It is recorded on the azure vault of heaven ; 
Its letters the glittering stars — heralds 
Of my future glories. 

As easy might 
Yon angry sea, whose wildest waves, 

24 thomas a'becket. [act I. 

E'en in its fiercest rage, are stayed by this rock-bound 

Strive to wash out what is recorded there — 
I have no measure for such meanness ! 


Do you hear him ? 

A'Becket tarns to go, when a clamor is raised against 
him. He steps hack and says — 
What noise is this ? Oh, were it not forbidden 
By my orders, with arms I would defend myself. 

TJie doors of the apartment in which the King is sitting 
are now thrown open, and A'Becket discovers a body 
of Knights, with their garments tucked up and their 
sivords drawn, when Heistry approaches him hastily, 
and exclaims — 


So ! so ! Sir Priest. What ! this unto ourselves ? 
My Lords, we deem it fitting we should revive 
The customs and usages of our grandsire. 
What think ye, Sirs ? * 


We do assent. 

And we — saving the honor of God, 
And of the Holy Church. . # 


There is venom 
Li that reservation. We will no more with thee. 
Here is a special messenger from the Pope, 
In answer to my prayer. He, with letters 
Apostolical, enjoins all prelates, and more 
Especially you of Canterbury, to accept and 
Observe all the King of England's laws. 


Choose here upon the instant — Compliance, 
Exile, or death. 

a'becket, pointing to heaven. 
My Liege, my hour has not yet come. 

Aside.] All armed, 

And ready for the act ? A forced compliance 
Will not bind " the rights of our order" — and as on them 
Hangs the sole hope the Anglo-Saxon people have 
Against this Norman monarch's fierce assaults, 
I'll wear these robes, proof-armor in their cause, 
And with religion on our side, the sole true friend 
Of Liberty, I will assert — maintain their rights. 
I will consent — straightway to France, and thence 
To His High Holiness, appeal from this. 

Aloud to the Court.] 

Prepare these Constitutions. 


Long live our King ana Bishop. 

End of Act I, 

This is well. 



France — An Anteroom — Gold and Blue. 

Matilde enters with Lucille. 


In faith, Lucille, our refuge here in France 
Doth seem more like triumphal entry of hero fam'd 
Than fallen favorites' flight — such troops of friends 
Attend us on our way. Oh, banish, sweet, 
From thy once radiant brow the sombre hue 
Now rests there. You'll make me sad, dear girl. 
Indeed you will. 


Never, dear cousin, with a willing heart. 


Willing or no, it matters not, Lucille, 

My heart is ever mirror unto thine. 

So cheer thee, love — thy suitors would not know 

The face they once adored. What's the romance 

The gay Lord Fitzurse [Lucille starts] sang, when last 

we feasted 
By sweet Avon's side ? Sing me one line, 'twill bring 
To memory all those scenes of joy in which we revell'd, 
And, as gay lark's song heralds the smile of dawn, 
Wake from its dreams thy mournful pensive eye. 
These knights of France are rich in all may win 
"the heart of beauty, and well I know 
Full many a lance will break for thee, 



And break in vain ! 


Why so ? How ? Sighs and tears ! 
What is the cause of this ? Of late I've mark'd 
You're much alone, in shady walks, or where 
The silver moon sheds her pale light. What is't ? 
Dost love? Thou'rt moved! Who is the knight whose 

Thy heart doth wear ? Tell me, sweet girl ; I know 
Thou lovest I 


'Tis true, and am beloved. 
Nor were I sad, but he in whom I live 
Now mourns by Avon's bank his absent love. 
His name, Matilde, I long have long'd to tell, 
But that my heart's so jealous of his worth, 
I would not e'en the air of heaven 
Should know its precious secret. 


Know I its lord ? 
If so, how sweet we shall commune together, 
Unfolding to each other our hearts' treasures ; 
For I a secret have, dearer to me than life. 
It shall be thine — thine given me in turn. 


Is't so ? Fitzurse — his name. 


The noble, generous youth 
We love so much ? He who cours'd o'er the heath 
Of Hounslow to our support ? 


The same. 



Why, thou hast known him but one little month. 


One little month? So full of joys it was, 
That, when I count them o'er, all else of life 
Seems but one little speck, except, except 
The last few days, which are as centuries. 
Dost wonder that I am sad ? 


Nay, dearest, rather wonder I that floods 
Of tears marked not our swift departure, 
• When, all so unprepared, thy heart was rooted 
From the soil it loved, to pine away afar. 
But cheer thee now, thou shalt not miss him long; 
He shall be summoned to attend our train. 


Thanks, thanks, my dear Matilde ; but he, you know, 
Doth wait upon the King. 


Nay, nay, you say the Queen of Beauty 
Rules his heart. She owns not a divided service. 
If Fitzurse loves thee, what is Henry's will 
Weighed against Love's commands ? All things 
Oppose its ardent calls, are but as rushes in its path. 
He'll straightway come to France. 


Then wilt thou see my face decked, like the morn 
Of May, in the foir flowers thou so lovest, Matilde ; 
My heart will be as blithe as linnet's, 
And the whole livelong day thou'lt hear my song ; 
My steps the gentle fawn's shall all outvie ; 
And in my smile, mirrored, shall be thine own. 


The sweetest ever seen by man, 

In their richest beauty. Thy lover is — 


The Lord of Blois. He whose wit is soul 

Of merry meetings, and from whose sage discourse 

Wisdom itself might learn. 

But soon they'll come — 

Our aged uncle and my own true knight. [jEJxemit. 

Stone-Vaulted Hall. 


This then is my reward for years of toil ! 

Oh! thou poor King, semblance of majesty! 

To use armed force against a cowled monk ! 

My pity doth outweigh my hate for thee. 

How soft the air of France ! The breeze that did accord 

With words of hate, with voice of love doth harmonize. 

Bright omen this — herald of joys to come ; 

Her King must smile, for many is the favor 

I have rendered him ; nor will brave Philip frown, 

For him I have served in diverse manners. 

But what of that ? Mankind of woman born 

Never knew gratitude, since the first mother 

Of us all rebelled and ate forbidden fruit, 

Though Eden teemed with all most fair and good. 

No, no, 'tis not to this I'll look; jealous they grow 

Of England's King, and I will nurse this plant 

Till it o'ershadows every other thought. 

Rome's Pontiff, too, doth feel but little love 

For him who so invades his rights. 


Enter Johx of Salisbury. 

Who comes? 


Your pardon, Father, if that I intrude. 

Welcome, my son ; when to our friends at home 
You write, use Saxon names, lest that our letters 
Intercepted, disguise be needful for their safety. 


I shall, my Lord ; but now a knight of Flanders 
Attends your leisure. He comes intrusted 
With kind messages. 

Is't so ? Give him a hearty welcome, 
And, when refreshed, escort him to my room. 


France, too, doth join in her regards. My Lord of Blois 
Now greets her messengers. 

France too ! Methinks the sun does shine 
To-day ! Go you with haste and give them welcome. 

[Exit Salisbury. 
Flanders and France ! one more and all Fate's frowns 
Are flown ; thus she, who seemed a very shrew 
To me, angelic maid will be. Ere they arrive 
I'll summon my Lucille, for suffering beauty 
More doth move the heart than ever did 
The care-marked face of age. Albert ! ho ! Albert ! 

Enter Albert.] 
Bid my lady nieces attend me here, 
As messengers from France and Flanders 
Have arrived, and I would they should welcome 
Them. [Exit Albert. 


Farewell, pale care! welcome, rose-cheeked joy ! 
Once more, as in my boyhood's hour, my heart 
Doth gayly beat. 

Louis of France, my heartfelt thanks 
To you ; and Philip of Flanders, success 
Attend you ever — this hour shall Henry rue. 

Enter Matilde, Lucille, and Peter of Blois. 


How fares my uncle? 

Well, dearest child ; and thou, the same ? 
But this were needless, for thy smile assents 
In terms more speaking than thy tongue could lisp. 
My fair Lucille ! Thou art not well, my child — 
But soon the air of France will call its wonted color 
To thy cheek. 

Do those Lords attend? 


They do. 


Say I await them here. 

[Exit Blots. 
My daughters dear, season your welcome 
As best becomes ye. I'd take by storm 
These noble hearts, for first impressions 
Are like first bounds of steeds, that start 
Upon a race, which, feebly made, compel 
Much after toil, else they ne'er reach the goal. 
They come. 
Blois ushers in Lords of France and Flanders, 
From Flanders and from France, my Lord, 
These gallant knights bring messages of love. 



Welcome, welcome, gentlemen. 

Sir Guy de Lusignan ! 
Nobles of France, he is well known to you, 
For Fame did with one breath proclaim you all 
Her own. 

To LusiGJSAisr.] 

My youth's fond playfellow ! 
Accept my welcome, and my thanks — thanks 
From a heart o'erflowing — for this remembrance 
Of thy sunshine's friend. 


Friends in misfortune 
Are the only friends the great man e'er should boast. 
There ever are a thousand motes live in his sunbeams, 
But when shadows fall, they darkling fade away. 
Most noble Primate, our service unto you, 
And our King's welcome. 


Thanks, my Lord, thanks to him 
And you. My niece Lucille ; Matilde, her friend 
And cousin. 


Ever at your service, Ladies fair. 

How passing beautiful ! 

Aloitd.~\ As large as is 

The welcome of our hearts, which knows no bounds, 
So would our King and we, that you should find 
Our fortunes and our favors. Our Liege, 
• To Henry's embassy's complaint of violation 
Of the Treaty of Montmerail, replied, 
" Go, tell your King, that if he holds unto the customs 


Of his grandsire, I well may hold to right 
Hereditary, of succoring the exiled of all climes." 

Indeed ! indeed ! 'Twas nobly said. Were I to live 
Twice man's allotted time, I should not have 
E'en hours enough wherein to thank his gracious Majesty 
For such unbounded kindness shown me. 

The knights and ladies retire to the back of the stage and 
Fitzurse enters. 
What ! thou, my Lord Fitzurse ? 

Aside.] I love this youth ! 

And yet, alas ! why so ? His mother ! 

X o ! no ! 'tis past, 'tis past. 
Aloud.] Welcome, my son. 

fitzurse, kneeling. 

How fare you, reverend Father ? 
Thy niece and cousin, all well, when so much evil 
Is abroad ? 

All well, my son — and you ? Oh ! thine 
Is, indeed, true love ! 

fitzurse, aside. 
Ha ! knows he that ? Oh, would it were ! 

When in my power, you refused high rank, 
Thus, in my poverty, to join my train. 

I wanted but thy love. Thy offices, 
Many, more able, needed. I but made room 
For one of the hungry crowd, that he might gorge 
Himself with power, that dish which all who eat, 


Lest they are favor' d with its choicest parts, 
Soon sickened, fall its prey. 

Henry on wrong heaps wrong : 
Four hundred of thy truest friends are banished 
From his realm, and Peter pence is stopped. 

May Heaven pardon him as I do now ! 
How greatness brings sad havoc in its fall 
On all who prop it up. 


Not this alone ; 
He hath sequestered the revenues of Canterbury, 
And even thy domestics banished. 

Revenged himself upon the innocent ! 
Oh, grimed heart ! More fiendish than was Nero 
In his rage ! To think that he I've served so long, 
From tender youth to age, should thus repay me. 
Oh, wretched man and yet more wretched King ! 
My servants, say'st thou? In what have they wronged him, 
Save in the service they have rendered me ? 
But he rewards the faithful with ingratitude. 
I will to England hasten, and surrender up 
My life ('tis all I've left) to him. 


That were both rash and vain. 

Nay, nay, my Lord ! 


My friends ! my friends ! 
Think, think of them ! Are they to suffer 
For wrongs done by me ? Justice hath fled his realm, 
And devils rule his heart. Had I remained 
In England, this had not been. 


Oh, curse of greatness ! 
But thus the branches die, when falls the oak ! 
Had I the voice of Rome, I'd shake the realm 
Until it tottered on the verge of ruin, 
And his proud sceptred head lay in my courser's way. 
Peace, peace, my heart, but grow not instant old 
With this assault of Fortune ! Bear up, bear all ; 
Still hast thou manhood's vigor, with the wisdom 
Born of sixty wintry years. 

Attend me here, my son. 
You who have flown to aid when fortune frowns, 
Shall be the first on whom her favor'll light. 
You'll find some friends in yonder room. 
Farewell, and when you're weary of life's trifles, 
Come to my closet ; there you'll find its cares, 
Spread with no niggard hand. 


Bear up, my Lord, bear up ; this unto Henry 
Were the happiest hour he ever yet hath lived, 
Could he but see your grief. 


My grief! grief and A'Becket 
Are as far apart, as are the sun 
And his antipodes ! 

This is not grief 
But rage, cooled in the air of practised self-control. 
Oh, could you look into my heart's curtained chambers, 
You would witness scenes would daunt your very soul ! 
A citadel stormed outwardly by foes, 
The hosts within, maddened by suffering, 
Turned upon themselves. 


Oh, Father ! give not way. 



Give not way ! I know my part ; forbearance 
For a season wins control ; when once I hold 
The reins, Henry of England, beware my rule ; 
The jewelled sceptre shall be all thou'lt wear 
Of royalty ; that will I leave you, that my revenge 
May the more bitter be, reminding you, poor King, 
Of what you once had been, and might yet be. 

fitzurse, aside. 
This to the King, you'd never hold those reins. 

I, I had rather be your crawling slave, 
Toil at the galleys from the first breath of morn 
Till day hath sunk to slumbers, than live but king 
In name, held in such light esteem, the very air 
Would refuse to bear my words beyond the walls 
That heard them. Down Fate's long vista I have looked 
And seen what I have spoken. 

Mark me, my boy : 
My mother gave me this. 

She was the daughter 
Of a Saracenic chief. My father 
Warred with hers. After a conflict fierce, 
Overcome by him and prisoner taken, 
Long lay he ill, tended but by my mother, 
Then a maid of beauty, spotless as her virtue. 
Ministering to all his wants, foreseen 
Long ere conceived — she learnt to love him, 
And lie loved her — for what will sooner melt 
The heart of man than beauty, kneeling by the couch 
Where pain has laid his stricken frame. 
After some months, the tears that nursed those hours 
Of grief, were changed to smiles should gladden 


All life's days ; and theirs were in their spring. 
One great and brave, the other fond and fair. 
Ransomed, he asked her hand ; her father frowned ; 
But 'twas in vain — their troth was plighted. 
They swore to wed. He left for England. 
Scarce had he reached her shores, when at his feet 
Knelt a fair youth, " London" and " Gilbert" on his 

('Twas all the English that he knew), admittance 
Craving to his service. Knowing 'twas her, 
His heart alone adored, for love is ne'er deceived 
However disguised the form — he raised her — 
Clasped her to his breast — she was his own. 

:Jc :£ % H« ♦ * 

Within a little chapel by the sea-shore stands, 

Mantled in ivy, veiled by rarest flowers 

From the world's gaze profane, they gave their hands — 

No hearts had they to give. Blest in each other, 

Long in love they lived ; and when he died, 

The blow which felled the oak struck to the dust 

The flower. There, by sweet Avon's side, where stands 

A weeping willow, lie interred all 

That was left to earth — their spirits dwell in Heaven. 

Oh ye who watched my infancy, 
Upon my age look down in love : mail me 
In virtue, that the shafts of vice may pass 
Me blunt and harmless. Grant that my arm may wield 
Her truncheon, while her banner floats high o'er 
My victorious brow. 

But I detain you, Sir. 
Go to my anteroom — there may my niece 
And cousin both be found. 

I will with you. [Mceunt. 


An Anteroom in Palace. 

Matilde, Lucille; Knights of France and Flanders 



Ladies fair, we trust that us and ours you use 

As best promotes your pleasures. Many's the charm 

Of France — all yours, if you'll but ask it. 

Thanks, heartfelt thanks, most noble Lords ; so rich, 
So bounteous is your clime, that, were I not 
Of England, I fain would be of France. 
The very air of heaven is generous here ; 
The flowers, the fruits, so lavish all their sweets, 
Ambrosial is each breath. 


Nay, nay, unworthy she of praise 
So sweet ; believe me, 'tis that she borrows 
From thy charms, that all's so passing fair. 

The rose could scarce desert us here in France, 
So finished are you in your speech, my Lord. 


In the moon's ray alone, the dew-drop glistens 
Longest. May we for many a day boast 
The bright light thy sweet smiles give our land. 
Who may this be approaches ? A gallant gentleman ! 


A noble Lord, the pride of all who know him. 


Fitzurse enters. 


To Matilde.] Fair lady, by your leave. 

[Kisses her hand. 
Tour servant, gentlemen. 


My Lord Fitzurse, you're welcome. 

Presenting Lucille.] My lovely cousin ! 

fitzurse to her. 
My Morning Star ! [Kisses her hand. 

Oh, what a golden day 
Herein is promised me ! 


Fitzurse, my noble Lord ! 
The others retire^ [They icalk apart. 

My fair Lucille — Sun of my life, what, what 
Hath ravaged my rich garden thus — its flowers 
All faded — all its pure springs dried up — where 
Are the roses rich, bloomed richest on thy cheek ? 
The lilies fair which made thy neck their bed ? 
Their breath alone remains. And those bright orbs 
Which once did put the stars to shame, now seem 
But wells of grief. Cheer up, cheer up, sweet friend ; 
Call from thy soul the light once wont to glisten 
In thy tearless eye. You'll make me sad, dear girl, 
In faith you will. Ah ! now you smile, and now I know 
My own Lucille. What is't hath changed you thus ? 


Thy absence, my dear Lord, and loving doubts 
Lest we no more should meet. Ah ! that alone 
Were grief enough to make stones weep ; but as the sun 
Their sweet distilments draws from flowery meads, 


So shall thy presence from my verdant heart 
Reap harvest of such joys, thy eye will love 
To linger on the scene, on which it once so fondly gazed. 


True, Love, though banished from our cherished home, 
We'll deck in joy our thoughts — and smiles the garb 
Shall be, the face shall wear — all lands the same to love. 


In truth we will, dear Lord — but pray, how came you here ? 


My heart had learnt to beat most healthful time 

To the soft music of Lucille's sweet voice. 

That missed — all others sounded " harsh and out of tune." 

So I came here to France. 


Then Henry hath not frowned 
On you — no, no, that could not be. 


Nor is ; 
But I have frowned on him — spurned the base rule 
That tramples thus on worth ; genius to slander's shafts 
Hath fallen prey, and wisdom fled his realm. 
The ides of March brought not more ills upon the sons 
Of Rome, than this on England hath. 


Oh, say not so, for she our country is — 
But see, these knights of Flanders and of France 
Have ta'en their leave — they are most courtly lords ; 
To them I'm much beholden. 


Thence, much am I ; 
Come, dearest love, and we'll amid this castle's varied 

While away a few short hours. [Exeunt. 


Court at Sens — A Grand Hall. 

Enter Henry and De Broc. 


I have advices tell me the Primate threatens me. 
He threaten me ! Why, what a slave am I ! 
A monkish cowl more terror strikes into my heart 
Than twice ten thousand men, all mailed in steel ! 
Still, should he issue interdict, farewell 
To all my power — this will suspend all forms 
Religious — marriage, baptism, burial — No priest 
Can then officiate in public or in private. 
'Twill break the bonds of loyalty. I'll stay his course. 
De Broc ! my Lord De Broc ! Give instant orders 
That all England's ports be watched, with this command, 
That any one, or man or child, matron or maid, 
Who shall bear over, promulgate, or obey, 
Letters of Interdict, receiveth instant death, — 
No clergy's benefit allowed. Announce 
That if the Cistercian Order, now at Pontigny, 
Continue to protect this traitor, their Order 
Be expelled from my domains. [Exit De Broc 

Enter Fitzurse.] Ha ! my Fitzurse ! 

fitztjrse, kneeling. 
My Liege. 

he^ey, sarcastically. 

How fares our loving Primate ? 


Well, my Liege — France, Flanders, and the Pope outvie 

each other 
In favors shown him. 



Is't so, in fact ? 


In fact, my Liege. 


What can we do ? 


Make peace with him. 


Make peace, but how ? Must I cringe to him ? 


No, my Liege, use France. He will a mediator be. 
There must be peace, else your whole realm's disjoined. 
Better 'twere made in a friendly way, than you be forced 
To it. 


True, true ; we will consult with France 
As to the better mode. A'Becket knows not 
You are in my service ? 


No, deems me fallen from favor. 


Let it be so, but heed him well. Attend me ! \Exemit. 


a'becket and blois. 
Your orders are fulfilled, my Lord — 
Yet may not Henry injure you still more ? 


He injure me ? Each wrong he does me falls 
As sand, a handful thrown aloft, covering whole acres 
With its particles. Such my revenge shall be — 
A myriad ills for every wrong he does my country 
And my friends. 

At Sens, henceforth, I'll dwell in peace, 
Out of the range of his hostility, 
While he'll live troubled with the fear of me. 
His Holiness hath bidden me, " in this my poverty," 
To be " Consoler of the poor." To Henry, begging, 
He refused a conference, and me appoints 
His Legate unto England. Most generous act ! 
Said I not that all worked well ? Trust, trust to years ; 
We better read the hearts of men than ye 
Of tender youth. 


'Tis true, my Lord. 
One Alexander, and but one, was to the old world known ; 
So shall Rome's sacred 'scutcheon his name bear, 
Greatest of all her Pontiffs. Such men are offspring 
Of a thousand years — none, none like him 
Shall the next ten centuries see. Ah ! here 
Albert comes. More news ? Methinks this day 
Is big with it. 

Enter Albert.] [A'Becket, taking letter, reads. 

What is this ? What is this ? 
Henry inhibits all appeals, or unto the Pope 
Or me ; declares it treason to introduce 
Our interdicts into his kingdom, and obliges all 
Who in England dwell, to swear observance 
Of these orders, on pain of most dread sufferings. 
This, this is monstrous ; it were as well that water 


Were forbidden ! I'll fill the world with it ! 

This is the cause of God ! Go you, and unto Louis 

Write this, also to Philip of Flanders : 

" That I suspend the spiritual thunder 

Over Henry's head, to fall, less timely repentance comes." 

This will him deprive of all his continental territories, 

And endanger his power in England. 

Write this, and messengers dispatch to Rome 

With news of what I do. 

I'll be myself once more. 
I'll nothing with this King ! He yet shall sue 
To me ! All mediations shall but faster forge 
The bars keep Henry from my love. 
Enter Johx of Salisbury.] 

Ha ! my friend 
Of Salisbury, what news hast thou ? 

johk of Salisbury. 

John of Oxford 
Hath for himself obtained absolution, 
And resigned his Deanery to the Pope, 
But, by his appointment, straightway received it back. 

Indeed ! This looks not well for us ! What arts 
Were used to influence His Holiness ? 
What more ? 


A Bull from the Pope, my Lord, the decree 
Annulling, did confiscate your goods, 
But with his prohibition 'gainst excommunicating 
Any person in England, or interdicting that realm. 
While he his wish doth indicate, exhorting you 
To moderation and humility. 

sor.NE i.] thomas a'becket. 45 


To moderation 
And humility ? I'll see my friend of France- — 
Louis will ne'er desert me. 

Whence comes this change ? 
To moderation and humility ! 
And what is this but moderation 
And humility ? These cloistered courts 
After my princely halls, and but two friends 
For all my regal train — 
I would for myself be humble, very humble, 
Humble as the dust. 

My exaltation were my sure reward, 
But my poor friends — my country ! 

Exd of Act II. 

act m. 

"Stone" — A'Becket's apartment in Monastery at St. Colomba. 

Enter Lords De Beoc and De Tracy, 


Is this the love France bears to England, 
Such princely entertainment to her foes ? 


'Twas ever thus, his seeming modesty 
Was but the semblance of austerity. 


A beggar's robe upon a princely couch 
Proved well this upstart's vanity. 


Peace, peace ! He comes 


Well ! let him, 'tis but to blind 
The vulgar he's thus clothed, they never see 
Aught but the ante-room, and that's the same, 
A picture of sad poverty. He knoweth well 
How best to catch the vulgar crowd. My Lord, 
There's danger here to us and to our rights ! 


Once on the shore of England, 'twill go hard 
But we shall tame his spirit ; escape 
Were not so easy, had we guarded well. 


We'll have no peace while Becket lives to plot. 


True, true ! There's something in the air of France ! 
How proud grows Lord Fitzurse! 


Fair and false ! false and fair ! 

He counts upon A'Becket's niece's wide domains. 

I sent some flowers to his lady love, 

Of fragrance rich and rare, with lines composed 

By our most sweet queen, in the envelope 

Came from Lord Fitzurse — (she knew the hand, 

For he's a dainty scholar) together — 

With his last words to us, — 

Sarcastically, .] His friends should advance his suit. 
Lo ! here the Archbishop comes. 


Enter A'Becket. 


Our gracious Lord Archbishop ! 

a'becket, aside. 
Our Lord Archbishop ! — no thanks to you I'm so. 

What would ye, Sirs, with me ? 


A friendly conference. 
I'll send my kinsman to you, Sirs : I hold 
No private conference — there's a wide gulf 
Between the Saxon Primate and the Norman lords. 


You do mistake us much, my Lord. We come as friends. 

So came the serpent, who beguiled poor Eve, 
Promising knowledge, which but proved her ruin. 


Not so, my Lord. Peruse this letter, 'tis from England's 
Aside to De Tracy.] 

Mark him, my friend 1 
a'becket reads — then says — 
Indeed, 'tis well — 'tis well. 
Accept my welcome, most noble Lords, 
And pardon an old man's petulance, 
In that I did receive you, formally — 
Sit ye, and we'll discuss this business. 
Ho ! Albert. [Enter Albert. 

Bid them prepare repasts for fifty knights, — 
Friends have arrived from France. [Exit Albert. 

How does his gracious majesty ? 



Well in all things save one — he bade us say, 
And that, the loss of your society. 
With this, that with the past its ills were flown, 
Therefore, in oblivion buried, let all 
Vexed questions be, and begs your quick return. 

Bury the past, my Lords ! 
Do we forget the avalanche has hurled 
Our stately mansions to the dust, and cast 
Unto the winds our prosperous fortunes ? 
Henry asks much — besides, here have I 
Plenty, honor, ease ; while I in England, 
At best, should find but lack of love, dishonor, 
Penury. — No, no, my Lords ; not to use 
Harsher phrase, this is ungenerous ! 


Nay, nay, my Lord ; you and your friends shall be restored 

To all your livings ; and ail the benefices 

That have been filled during your absence 

Shall be vacated, until supplied by you. 

He asks but this, that you absolve his ministers. 


We will confer on this. Albert, attend these lords. 
You must be quite o'er worn with your ride. 
I thank you for your love, shown in your haste 
To greet me. Doves had scarce flown faster. 


Our service to you, Father. [^Exeunt. 

Falsehood here, falsehood everywhere, methinks 
The very air is filled with it. I scent naught else. 
Return to England and he'll repair the past ! 


Restore myself and friends our proud estates — 

Can he restore the time of which he has robbed me ? 

Why, what a fool he thinks me ! Will do all this — 

All this, ay more, so say these lords. Catch me 

With promises, and birds with lime, when on them 

Te can lay it, Sirs ! There's something more in this ; 

Insult to injury. I'll none of it. When I may land 

On England's shore, backed by my thousands, 

Then I may return, but never on the strength 

Of Henry's promise — which, like the Upas, 

Wins the gazer's eye, but to the trusting touch 

Is poisonous. 

And more : there are my private heart-seated wrongs 

Which stalk around me, though there's lapse of years. 

'Twas he who robbed me of my youth's fond hopes, 

Dishonoring her who was my only pride ! 

No, no, not so ; I will be just even in my hate : 

Hers was the sin to me — not his — he knew not of my 

Oh ! I forget — my heart and head grow old — 
I forgave him then, and took England for my bride. 
Away, ye selfish thoughts ! Ye must be strangers 
To the breast of greatness. 

Enter Matilde and Salisbury. 

My child, here is news from England. 
Henry craves our return. [Aside.] I'll sound her 
woman's wit. 


You will not go, dear father. 


Most surely not. 



He promises to restore myself and friends 
Unto our former honors. 


His promises, my Lord — 

Are — 


But sportsmen's calls to lure their prey. 


You will not go ? 


Should I be afraid, my child ? 
A'Becket ne'er knew fear, for he is mailed 
In the garb of faith ! 


Father, it is not that you fear, but you mistrust ; 
You know he is treacherous, as hyena fierce, 
And you'd not venture in his den. 
Prudence is a manly virtue ! 

Go not, my Lord. 
Here are your truest friends, consult with them. 

Enter Fitzurse on one side, Lucille on the other. 
Lucille, my child ! my Lord Fitzurse — ye whom 
I much do love — ye whom I call mine own, 
Give me your voices. England here writes 
(Her lords have just arrived), and begs 
Our quick return, promising to all our friends 
Their former state. 


Father, you'll not return ! 
Aside.] Why came Lord Fitzurse here ? 


Do you counsel thus ? 

lucille, kneeling to him. 
Upon my bended knee, I do beseech you, Sir, 
That letter ! [A'Becket gives it her. 

Aside.'] The same hand as that to Henry's embassy. 
Love cannot blind me to the fact, 'tis his, — 
Fitzurse's ! — Bear up, my heart ! I'll note him well. 

And what, Fitzurse, say you ? 

I, would not trust his promise. 


I, would, my Lord ; 
Honor and safety unto all he vouches. 


Would you, my Lord ? 


I would, fair lady. 


His promise ! 
Oh ! Father, do not go, save hostages 
Be left with France for your security. 

Well thought, my child ! 


And deeds, confirming all your rights, 
Be sent, 

So be it. Salisbury, meet me at hour of nine ; 
Lest Henry trifles, we'll safe bind at once. 
Each now, to their several pleasures. 

Exeiuit all, except Fitzurse and Lucille. 



Sweet flower of Spring, all will be well ! 
I heard from Henry by this embassy : 
There is full power to comply with what 
A'Becket asks. 


My Lord, you, from King Henry, advices have ! 
Why spake you as you did, when others raised their 
doubts ? 


I gave my answer unto all they asked. 


My Lord ! My Lord ! You gave your answer ! 

A friend had opened to his friend his heart ; 

So he his thoughts had read. A follower 

Should have done so. I would not trust this King, 



Nor what ? 


No matter- — 


Dost thou reprove ? 


You heard from Henry ! 
How could you hold communion with A'Becket's foe ? 

fitzurse aside. 
Am I love's slave, that I am questioned thus ? 

Dost thou reprove, fair maid ? 


As does your heart, 
Does mine ; but oh, what grief, if that it must do so. 
Aside.] To love, to doubt ! Oh, wretched fate is mine ! 



For me, Lucille, these words ? 


For you, my Lord ; 
Or any man, whose smiling face 
Is but the glittering sheath, covers a heart 
Would stab its dearest friend. [Fltzurse starts. 

You met these lords in private 
Ere they had seen mine uncle ; a secret conference 
Held with them ; these facts concealed, when in good faith 
Consulted. [Fitzurse offers to take her hand. 

Nay, Sir, your hand's unclean, fresh from the traitor's act. 


Lucille ! 


Who would be false to him, is false to me ! 


Why this ? How know you that I conference held ? 


Tour silence to my charge when made ! 

I will not wound him, with these dreadful lines— 
His letter to the King — assassins of my young heart's 

I've said enough, unless his heart is stone. 


'Twas in your uncle's cause, and thine ; besides, 
I saw them but a moment. 


Would'st thou prevaricate and gloss it o'er to me, 
My Lord ? — you met them, Sir, my uncle's foes, 
In private, 'tis enough — false unto him, 
You'd be unfair to me. " Candor" is the motto 


Blazoned on true love's shield ! Farewell ! 
I am much grieved to find you lack this virtue. 
Who would have thought you thus could mar 
The noblest gifts of nature ? 

Farewell, farewell ! 
My love is changed to pity. Leave me, Sir ! 


Lady, you will repent you of this hour. 

Farewell ! [ Going. 


My Lord, I do repent me of this hour, 

And many hours past ! May Heaven pardon you, 

As I do now ! 


Farewell, fair Lady, since it must be so. 
You will relent. 


Never! never! 


Farewell ! [Exits. 


Are there in store for me more bolts like this ? 
If so, would Heaven they'd fall at once 
And crush me. 

a'becket enters. 

My child, what moves you thus ? 
Where is Fitzurse ? 


Fitzurse ! Fitzurse ! He's false to you, to me, 
To the whole world ; for all who knew him 
Held him as candor's child. Trust him not, 
Father, trust him not ! [ Giving a letter. 

Thy letter and these lines, 
'Twas the same hand penned both. 


a'becket reads. 

" A'Becket's friend, who fair Lucille cloth woo, 
Is Henry's friend, A'Becket's direst foe. 
Her bridal rites will prove A'Becket's grave, 
When fair Lucille becomes, Lord Fitzurse's slave." 
Where found you this ? [Aside.] 'lis from Queen Elea- 
nor ! 

lucille, taking -flowers from her bosom. 

These flowers bore the thorn. 
I cannot nurse you longer. [Drops them gently. 

Poison oft lurks beneath earth's fairest fruits ! 
What more knowest thou ? 


He saw these lords this morn ; 

Held private conference, ere you met them, Sir. 

Indeed, was't so ? nor spake when I did question him ? 
How false ! How foul ! Cheer thee, my child, all sorrows 
Have their balm ! Go, seek Matilde, I'll summon 
Salisbury. [Exit Lucille. 

I cannot believe, without the weightiest proofs, 
That he is false to me. 

Yet it is his heritage. 
Him whom I guarded, though unbeknown, 
From tenderest infancy to full-grown pride. 
I saw the germs of greatness in the boy, 
And trusted they would bloom in manhood. 
Thus ever fail our fondest hopes. 

My poor, poor child ! 
Why falls this blow on her ? Her, whom I thought 
Secure as cloistered nun from love-born griefs. 


Salisbury enters unseen by A'Becket. 
How vain is man's needfulness ! Poor girl ! poor girl ! 
But thus it is with all — how fitful is life ! 
To-day, in manly pride, as dares the bark 
The ocean's changefulness, the gallant youth struts, 
Conscious of his power ; but soon, as sinks 
Beneath that ocean's frowns the groaning hulk, 
His crest is lowered by the storm which strikes, 
Sooner or later, all who hope to soar 
High o'er the world's wild waves. 

Youth is hope's season, 
Though the seed that's sown, oft yields but sorry harvest. 
Life is a dream, naught real but the hour. 
Unstable as the stream, earth's offerings, 
The sweetest to the taste are joys unhoped. 
The bitterest sorrow comes when unforeseen. 
Hard seems life's yoke, yet easy 'tis to bear, 
If mated, but with faith. 


How wonderfully wise ! He's wrapt in thought 
On man's futility. I must disturb his musing. 
Father ! 


My son, what news ? 


Your terms made known to Henry's embassy, 
They, having well feasted, would not o'er wait 
The night, but posted back again. Methinks, 
My Lord, he'll grant you any thing, so urgent 
Were their words. 


'Tis well ; but hast thou heard 
What passed between the King of France 


And he who is miscalled England's ? 
Thus says a later embassy, just arrived. 


A later embassy ! 

E'en so. Hear thou their words — 
Attended by his friends and counsellors, 
His sovereignty proudly worn, Henry approached 
Unbending ; his salutation formal, 
And his words as cold as winds that come 
From Norseland. 'Twas not the part of France 
His breath should be the breeze from balmy Southland 

But as exposed, most hostile things produce 
A genial spark — even from the meeting 
Of their distant spirits, a flame of love 
Sprang forth. Right royally forgetting and forgiving, 
He to those honors of which I was so unjustly reft, 
With many more, restored me. 

We will to England soon, 
When unto you, high office I'll intrust. 


Bright ray of Peace ! May Heaven be thanked ! 

E'en so — and by its mercies we are called 
In action to proclaim unto the world 
Our gratefulness. Much is there to be done ; 
The lawless nobles must be curbed, licentious 
Is the very air of England. Gold, glittering gold, 
And an unseemly pride, are all these nobles 
Glory in. Their vassals are oppressed, 
And the High Church neglected. 


It must, shall, be reformed. 
This for thine ear alone. [Miter Lucille. 

What would you, child ? 


The King, our Liege, arrived to-day in France 
This letter bearing, his lords an audience crave. 

Gives a letter.] 
Fearing treachery lurked beneath, I bore it 
Here myself. What says his Majesty ? 

a'becket, after reading. 
We are recalled to all our honors ! 
The King reposes now some few miles hence, 
His lords of hig:h decree attend me here. 
Salisbury, go you and sound them well, 
Note all their actions, even their garb observe. 
The leopard's skin is most in vogue 
With our nobility, and 'neath its beauties 
Oft a poniard gleams. I fear not, but mistrust. 
Their purpose known to you, you'll find me here. 

[Exit Salisbury. 
Lucille, my child, pray lay aside this grief, 
Thou mayst have heavier trials yet in store. 


If so, I'll bear them — as I will bear this — 
Am I not A'Becket's niece ? his child ? 


Well said, my idol girl — 
Yet stay — thy beauties now full blown, many there are 
In England who will strive to pluck the flower 
From the parent stem — and at thy age the heart 
Beats not alone with throbbings born within, 
But, like the sweet airs heard in verdant vales, 
Whispers in melodies in ten thousand born. 



I've done with love — an o'ermastered argosie — 

I've sunk my young heart's countless wealth 

In the deep bosom of forgetfulness — 

Mine uncle dear, hast thou not watched 

O'er infancy's frail flowers, smiled on their budding, 

And what you are pleased to call their full-blown 

Beauties, tended, with parent carefulness ? 

A father's love, no more. 


Yes, more ; a mother's ! 
Were you not both to me ? 


And thou to me, a child. 
The purest, dearest moments granted me 
In a long life, I owe to thee, Lucille. 
I never knew a parent's love. Though I am risen 
To greatness, 'twas heart-born grief marshalled me 
To honor ; since then I have never halted 
In my rapid course ; no matter how opposed, 
All things I made, rungs in ambition's ladder ; 
In my whole course of life o'erleaping 
Where I could not level to my will, and once, 
But once, have fallen — and that was, as the flame 
On sudden dies, to shine with greater brightness. 
We will prepare for England. [Lucille retires. 

Enter Salisbury] What say these lords ? 


All that, to the ear, is fair. 


But to the thought 
Most foul — I read your meaning — speak, my friend. 



With every wish for your success — much joy 
That you to England will return — smiles, words 
Such as are used by courtiers, they lauded 
Henry to the skies, for what he did perforce. 
Making him centre unto them, his satellites, 
No more, no more ! 


So greatness ever is attended. 
Upon the lion's heels thus treads the jackall, 
And what he leaves, delights to feed on. 
You met them graciously ! Salisbury, 
If they can, they will sting — we must draw their fangs. 
Wait they below? 


They do, my Lord. 

We will receive them here. 

Exit Salisbury and enter Albert. 
Albert, I may have work for you, await without ; 
Your arms are ready ? Cordin and Bassett 
With you ? I'll knock, should you be needed. 
Enter Salisbury, De Tracy, De Moreville, and Sir 
Richard Brito. 


Welcome, Gentlemen! 


To the Archbishop of Canterbury 
Our service — welcome to the Primacy once more ! 

Thanks, Gentlemen; thanks! 



The King commends himself to you; 
He would that you, with your fair nieces both, 
Should grace his court to-night, for soon he goes 
To Normandy. 


Say to my Liege we will attend 
His pleasure. This hour heralds days of joy 
To come, rich in the service we may render him ; 
And believe me, Gentlemen, that handmaids meet 
My children fair will be. 


Well know we that, my Lord, for hearts, ne'er owned 
The power of love before, unto their beauty 
Bend the suppliant knee. 


To maiden influence 
Noble hearts e'er yield a grateful homage ; 
Their beauty shows not only to the eye. 


So have we learnt, and happy shall we be 
When we may welcome them to English homes ; 
We will await you in King Henry's palace. 

Thanks, my Lord, thanks to all! Peace be with you. 
Farewell ! [Exeunt. 

So much for their nobility ! 

Didst note, my Salisbury, how constrained their words, 
Their actions forced, uneasy — guilty souls 
They bear about with them — trust them? 

You know me better — 
Besides, I have old claims on them — a wrong 
A'Becket will forgive, but not forget. 



Such wrongs you never can : use them, but watch them. 

We will: prepare a fitting escort to the Court 
To-night — to-morrow we'll to England. 
But what should faith professed, prove false ? 
Louis bade me not trust, save that the kiss 
Of peace were given — this he will refuse — 
Bear this forthwith unto the Bishops of London 
And Salisbury, and to the world make known 
My sentence of excommunication against them. 
Now will I fix upon foundation firm 
As that whereon Albion's white cliffs are based 
My Empire and my honors. En-gland's glory 
And the Church's power — her people's welfare 
And her nobles' pride — shall be A'Becket's care. 

End of Act III. 



A large Hall in De Tracy's Castle, England. 

Enter Fitzurse. 


New wonder on new wonder — 

And the King at peace ! No thanks to me for this. 
The churlish priest ere now had been but dust, 
Had Henry ta'en my counsel. 

De Tracy enters. 

De Tracy, 
Hast heard the news ? They say, last night, strange things 
Were seen — water was cast upon a burning pile 
And brighter made the flames ; with the furred cat 
The house-infesting vermin couched ; 
And the watchful guardian of my house fawned 
On the thief assailed it ! 


'Tis strange, indeed ! 


Yet stranger still is what hath happ'd to-day. 


How so ? 


A'Becket and the King are palm in palm. 


Bright omen, Fitz., for you! 





May not his fair niece partake the nature of the times ? 


The sun which gladdens nature's face, ne'er changes 
His fixed course. The moon, which softly smiles 
Upon a darkened world, may gild, not chase, the gloom. 
No change e'er comes o'er these which most delight 
The world's sad wayfarer. How may the fair Lucille, 
Then, turn aside and smile where she hath frowned ? 
No, no, De Tracy ! [AsideJ] He shall not read my heart. 


In charity. 


In charity ! Should Fitzurse prize the hand 
Without the heart ? The sun is golden, 
But without its heat, what would its radiance be ? 
'Twould catch the eye, but on the senses pall. 
De Tracy, I have lived in court and camp ; 
Wealth, honor, want, despite, have been my lot ; 
With all there was a void — a lack of something 
Which I knew not of. When griefs afflicted 
And when joys assailed, alike 'twas felt, 
My friends — a loneliness. I knew not whence 
It came, till fair Lucille I saw. 


Why then 
Too proud to take the hand ? 


The hand without the heart ! 



When lovely woman so regards a man 
That she'll to him intrust her lot and fortune, 
Is it not worth more, when springing from esteem, 
Than when it shoots to life, like the fair flower 
That blooms at dawn, to close ere noonday comes ? 
The plant of slowest growth is longest lived, 
Its shoots the farthest and is firmest fixed ! 


It may be so — but love without romance ! 


Have done with fancy ! She's a fickle dame ! 

Her votaries decks in colors false and fleeting. 

Tour nature has too much of the bright clime 

Wherein your youth was passed. The wave which 

May a poison bear, when raised unto the lip, 
While sluggish waters will the fainting form 
Awake to life and strength ! 

If fair Lucille but smiles ! 


Alas ! how can she ? 


Deem that she prizes justly your true worth, 
Now longer, better known. 

Here are De Moreville 
And Sir Richard Brito. 

Enter De Moreville and Sir Richard Brito. 
Welcome, Gentlemen ! My Lord Fitzurse, 
Sir Richard Brito and De Moreville here 
Have ever found a home. We once were a merry crew ; 


Let's be as merry as the times permit. 

Ho! boy, there! — wine. [To Fitzurse.] Come, Sir, be 

one of us. 


With all my heart ! Here's to yon, Gentlemen ! 
Why, 'tis as good as is your speech, De Tracy — " 
A free and generous wine. 


Thanks, noble friend ! 
Here's unto all, long life and happiness ! 
Why hangs, Fitzurse, this cloud upon your face ? 
Your manly spirit should o'eiiook the ills 
Of life, and smile at frowning fortune. 
Clear, clear thy brow, and let it shine as does 
The mountain's top, high o'er the thunder-storm. 


It shall. Yet gives not the mist enshrouds the mount 
From view, a richer beauty to it, when 'tis seen ? 


Ay, truly ! But a truce to jesting ; what ill 
Afflicts you ? 


Thou hast heard the news ? A'Becket 
And the King at peace ! 


At peace ! Is't from that quarter 
That this storm-cloud comes ? Strange ! strange, indeed ! 
A'Becket has a niece, my Lord. [Fitzurse, impatient. 
To De Tracy.] You've seen the fair Lucille ? 


When but a child. 


The loveliest flower boasts not the richest bud. 



Most true ! Yet, is not Lucille beautiful ? 

I hoped, A'Becket outworn with grief, 
Lucille, our Liege's ward, I might have won her. 
Her wealth would prop my falling fortunes, 
Though her disprize should chill my heart. 


The fairest maid e'er seen ! Fair Venus' prototype ! 
You loved her once ? 


And if I'd live must win her. 
Will not A'Becket strive so to please our King, 
As in his favor henceforth e'er to live ? 
Henry's command might find a willing ear, 
Were the past brought to mind. 


Wouldst thou threaten the great A'Becket ? 

You know him not, my Lord. His surplice clothes 

As stout a heart as ever armor cased. 

Shrinks the firm-based rock from wave 

That may overwhelm it ? Who'd dare so much 

As name the word, to threat ? His glance 

Would fall on him like Heaven's thunderbolt ; 

His stately mien, awe-filling, strike him mute ! 

I am a soldier, one who has borne arms 

From youth to age, and yet would brave the serried ranks 

Rather than face that tongue's keen irony. 

Oh ! be advised by me. 


Sir Richard well doth speak. 
King Henry's favorite and A'Becket's friend, 
Your suit were easily gained, never as his foe. 


Render the Primate favors— hell not frown ; 

And then, in gratitude, his niece's thoughts 

Will turn to you ; her heart float down the silver stream 

Of peace, and fancy bear it through its flowery brakes, 

To the glittering source whence all her new joys spring. 

De Tracy, thinkst not so ? 


You counsel well, my Lord — 
And yet, Fitzurse, the hand without the heart ! 


That matters not ! I'll wear her, if not win her ! 

The ray that woos the verdant mead, dispels 

The mist enshrouds it from its heat. 

So shall my heart's fond love the tear that dims 

Lucille's bright eye, and 'neath its warmth new beauties 

To light. Now let's to Court, my Lords ! 


Wouldst wrest 
The flower from the parent stem, where it would bloom 
For many a day, to see it fade and fall 
Within the hour ? 


A'Becket rules this realm but as I rule her heart ! 


Believe me, my Lord, 
Its rich gem gone, the casket's not worth having ! 


Leave that to me, my arms shall be its setting. 

I'm for the Court. [Exit. 



Sol! So all! 
There shall we see if he is Fortune's child — 
111 save this maid, unless she loves, from love so wild. 


Porch to the King's Ante-room. 


The Lord Archbishop comes ! 


We will descend and greet him 
As our brother. [To Fitzurse.] Note him, young 
A'Becket enters in great state, he and his suite mounted. 
Welcome, my Lord Archbishop, to my Court ! 

a'becket, dismounting. 
My service to your Majesty. 


We gave this audience that, your wishes learnt, 
Once more we might be friends — we have no need 
Of words — what is your wish ? 
First, that, being your subject, 
You free pardon grant for all that's past. 


'Tis thine. 
Then, as being England's Primate, 
That you restore to me the Church of Canterbury, 
All its possessions, and your royal favor, 


With promise on my part of love and honor, 

And whatsoever may be performed by an Archbishop 

Unto his sovereign. 


"lis granted all — all's thine — 
Herewith unto my favor I receive you 
And your friends. Go, for a time, with me 
To Normandy, where we may labor for our subjects' good. 

Long absent from my friends and country, Sire, 
'Twould please me, had I leave, straightway to sail 
For England. 


Your pleasure is mine, my Lord, to England 
Let it be. My Court in Normandy is ever thine, 
When it shall please your Holiness. 

Thanks, my Liege ; thanks ! 


" Would you but do as I desire, all things 
Should be intrusted to your care." 


It shall be so. 


'Tis well ! At Rouen you will find meet preparations made ; 

And her Archbishop your escort to England. 

Now unto Court ; where we in harmony, 

Amid our assembled friends, will close the day. 

Bring here our steeds. \Exeunt attendants. 

The horses are brought; A'Becket prepares to mount, 
when the King holds his stirrup. 
Nay, pardon me, my Liege ; this is not meet ! 



The monarch of the realm makes all things meet ; 
Mount, my Lord Primate ! 


Nay, nay, my Liege ! 
I will be King, even in my courtesies. 
So be it. [^Kisses the King*s hand and mounts. 


On to the Court, my friends ! 

[All mount and ride off. 

The Court. 

Lords and Gentlemen in icaiting. Enter Fitzurse, De 
Tracy, De Morevxlle, and Sir Richard Brito. 

Lo ! where they come ! How loving, palm in palm ! 


'Tis so ! Stand back, my Lords ! The King ! 
Enter King Henry, and A'Becket, and attendants. 


My Lords and Gentlemen, receive once more 
My revere ad counsellor and loving friend, 
Thomas A'Becket, Primate of England, 
Of Canterbury Archbishop, unto our favor, 
And all those honors so justly his, herein restored. 
Respect him, as you love me. 



Welcome to the Lord Primate ! 
Thanks unto all ! Thanks unto your Majesty, 
That you have so o'erstepped the bounds 
Of kingly condescension, thus to the Court 
Presenting me. [Aside.] Pour oil on ruffled waves, 
For when the storm's just o'er, their swell is highest. 

Though time has changed the mortal part of him 
Here unto you returned, the immortal soul 
Has grown most strong in sacred learning ; 
Holding communion with those happier climes 
Where virtue only reigns. That realm alone 
Higher is than England's, and on the faults 
And failings of mankind looks with more kindly eye. 
My noble Lords, here see I those 
I called my friends, and found my foes ! 
But, with my blessing on you all, accept 
From me free pardon of the past. 
Let the volume of your hate be sealed, 
So far as aught's recorded against me ; 
Mine did I long since hurl far down the past's abyss. 
Look to the motives which did move me once, 
The means I used you'll find were just. 


He would uphold the past! Treason to our King! 

Peace awhile ! Let not ill-tempered haste 
Dash into atoms the frail cup of love I offer 
To your lips. Here is no treason ! I would that Church 

and State 
Were as twin brothers, linked in amity ; 


United, they shall stand till time's no more ; 
Divided, they must fail ere set of sun. 

Discontent among the Lords.] 
My Liege, command that silence reign, else our good 

purpose fails ; 
And all that's done be but as words written 
On the sea-shore's sands. 


Peace, my Lords, peace ! Who speaks, 
His King offends. 

My Lord High Primate asks 
Attentive ears. 

In our honored King, my Lords, the father 
Of this great realm, you see the pride, the power 
Of England — in me, the instrument of Heaven ; 
An humble agent of its blessed will. 
What were our King disrobed, dethroned ? 
What were the priest, stripped of his sacred office ? 
Foes are there .who'd delight in Henry's fall ! 
Foes are there who do long for my dishonor ! 
The heart must entertain and harbor vice, 
Ere the seducer's voice can steal 
Into its curtained chambers, and rob it of its jewel. 
Remember this ; be true unto yourselves, 
Your King, your country. You'll find Truth's legions 
Are your best resource. All are but men — yet he 
Who worthiest bears his charge, adds honor to his 

Your ear, my King. 


How bold a tongue he has ! 


Said I not so ? 

74 ttiomas a'becket. [act IV. 


And yet, how gilded is his speech ; 
It falls upon the ear as on the eye the sun ; 
So dazzling it doth dim, and bears the mind 
Along, unconscious of the course it takes. 


He's very dangerous — his speech is serpent-like — 

It charms but to destroy ! Were he but dumb 

I then could master him. I fear this peace is short. 


Ha ! the King's brow doth cloud. 

My Liege, why so ? 

The kiss of peace refused ! 


A vow I made precludes its gift. 


The conference, then, is o'er. The bond, 
Without the seal, were valueless. My Liege ! 
My Liege ! think well of this. 'Tis a slight gift — 
A gift when given not gone, so rich the return 
'Twill yield. My King, retract thy vow ; the Church 
Permits. A'Becket then is yours — we must be friends. 

Aside?[ I must not sue. I, who so soon enthroned 
Shall be, high over all earth's kings. 

Still my country speaks. 

To Henry.] 
Your realm demands it, a people's groans mourn 
Their sad miseries ; and a distracted land — 
Most eloquent counsellor in my cause — 
Pleads loud for it. 



It may not be. What England says 
Must be — our word, our bond. 


My Liege, the price 
That's paid cancels the bond. Here, see the smiling face 
Of lovely peace ; there, dire war's frowning brow, 
With all its attendant horrors. 


You counsel peace, 
Young Lord, who ever were for war? You lack not 

courage ! 
Has he sought to bribe you, my tried follower ? 
a'becket, scornfully. 

To bribe! 


To bribe ! Could I be bribed, my brow had never worn 
This deep gash which now it bears, a valued trophy 
Of the day I met the blow, were else my King's. 


True, true, I've wronged you ! 
a'becket, aside. 
Not the first wrong you've done him. 
Fouled in his birth, not even though King, 
Canst thou cleanse him. 


Take here my thanks, young Lord ! 
While thus reminded of a deed, till now forgotten — 
One you should be proud of, wear this sword, 
For years my constant friend ! As I have worn it 
So I'll wear you ; ever my counsellor 
Both in Court and camp. When your King finds 
True merit, he rewards it. Is it not so, A'Becket ? 


I thought so once, my Liege, and much it pains me, 
That this hour should be a witness against that thought. 


It shall not be so. The kiss of peace may not be yours, 

A vow made in an hasty hour precludes it. 

But come unto my heart. [They embrace. 

My Lords, this day does unto England bear 

Unheard of blessings. A prosperous people 

Are the greatest riches which a land can boast. 

To A'Becket.] 
Herein do I restore you to my love, 
As I already have unto your honors. 
I must away to Normandy. Preserve my realm 
In peace. Farewell to all ! 

Farewell ! most gracious Majesty ! 
May Heaven's choicest blessings be with you, 
And honor, love, and a long life be yours. 


Thanks unto all ! Farewell ! 

Exeunt the King and his attendants except Fitzttrse. 

My friends, we will prepare for our return 
To Canterbury. [Fitzurse appn % oaches. 

Young Lord, you have well spoken ; 
And though I had preferred some other's voice, 
My thanks are due to you. 


Father, receive it as an act 

Was due from one has wronged you much, 


Owes you great favors. May I not claim your pardon 
For the past, since you have said that all foregone is for- 
gotten ? 

Pardon, I may not grant. You have my prayers 
That you will ever walk in honor's footsteps. 
Whate'er the toil in tracing them, they at least 
Will lead to pleasure and to peace. 


It shall be so. When may I wait on you ? 

When I return to England. 

Not before ? my suit is urgent. 

And my cares are many. 


None, none so great as mine — 
A young heart's hopes. 

Rash youth, touch not upon that chord, 
Whole seas of misery are in those words ! 


Hast known love ? Thou knowest what I do feel. 
Past words, past thought, for reason holds no sway, 
When love gives birth to hope ! 

Love ! profane not with thy lips 
That holy word. 'Twas made for angels ! 
Mortals know it not ! 

What mean these words ? 


Impatient, wayward, and wilful from thy youth, 

I hoped thou wouldst to honor grow. 

Unknown to you, I nursed you in your infancy, 

Watched o'er your boyhood, and when to manhood grown, 

Sought to instill all generous sentiments. 

You know not how I loved you ! 

I had a niece, the only being who did bear my blood, 

Sole surviving daughter of a sister loved 

Only as angels are ; as bright, as good, 

As beautiful as they. 

You wooed her. 
Deeming you were the soul of honor, your faults 
The faults of generous youth — your suit I favored. 
The lady's eyes found grace was in your form, 
And gave admittance in her guileless heart 
To your too potent wooing. 

And I was glad, 
For you I had preferred to all the glittering throng 
Who wooed my niece. I looked on this 
As the sheet-anchor of my declining years. 
I thought that my solicitude for you 
Would be rewarded by your tender care 
Of her I loved so well — that she would be 
Incentive unto you to every noble deed — 
And thus together you would walk in honor. 
But no ! not so ! The lurking devil showed 
His cloven foot. Your angel read deceit 
Upon your brow, and handed me this letter. 


Ha ! is it so ? What fiend was't gave it her ? 
Give ! give it me ! that I may track him down ! 


Nay, it matters not ! Thou ownest its truth 
By thy hasty words — the heart that's new in crime 
Betrays itself. Thou canst not wear the coronet 
Had been thine. Dishonor now is seared 
Upon thy brow. 

fitzuese, touching his sword. 


Darest threaten ! 
The curse of Rome — 

fitzttese, kneeling. 
Stay ! stay ! those dreadful words ! 
I do relent. I will not curse thee, tho' thou merit it. 
The serpent's curse was on thee from thy birth ! 
Thy wrongs array thee 'gainst thy fellow-men ! 
Kneel then ! though thou mayest sting my heel 
('Tis all thou canst do), I will not bruise thy head. 

Fitzuese kneels.] 
Kneel at this whitened sepulchre of lofty aspirations 
And repent. It is the holy teaching of my Church, 
Repentance never comes too late to any man. 

End of Act IY. 



Hall in Palace at Canterbury — A'Becket alone. 


Land of my birth ! my weal, my woe ! all hail ! 

All hail ! You yet shall be my grave ! My grave ? 

And have I toiled through life for this ? — for this 

Alone ? 

Is this the whole of man's brief tale, the sum 

Of his mortality ? 

Of dust we're born, like dust we're buffeted 

By fortune's fickle winds, at most but fourscore years or so, 

And then to dust return. Oh ! sickening thought ! 

The loathsome grave and its vile myriads 

Disgust man with his nature ! 

But that a higher destiny awaits 

The soul immortal, here doth own at best 

A slight brief tenancy, how worse than valueless 

Were life, that principle which still doth live 

Through all the changes of mortality — 

This it must be ! yea ! yea ! 'tis this that makes 

Us struggle through the ills on us attend, 

From cradled infancy to the grave of age. 

Lucille enters. 
Ah ! my fair Lucille ! What ? tears in your old home ? 
Give not way to grief! 'tis the medicine 
Of the soul, wisely administered, 
By an unerring hand. 



I know this well, dear Father, and its truth 

I feel — but my grief is so heavy ! 'Tis dreadful 

Thus to have the heart's first flowers crushed 

In their bloom ! To have the name, I once so fondly hoped 

That I should proudly bear, dishonor's synonym ! 

Alas ! my poor, weak woman heart ! I thought 

I had o'ermastered thee, but thou o'ermasterest me ! 

Thy tendrils are too firmly fixed within my breast, 

For even the direst wrongs to root it out. 

True 'tis, my child, that it is dreadful ; 
But the hand that wounds will heal. 


Oh, would it might ! For since that most dread hour 

When I first learnt his perfidy — Ah me, 

That I should call it so ! — Xot even one instant 

Have I been alone. ^S±j grief is everywhere — 

Its melancholy notes I hear at dawn, 

High o'er the lark's ; the woods by day, 

But with its plaintive melody are filled ; 

And when night comes, her hideous birds 

Haunt me, where'er I wander — and then 

When sleep's sweet hours draw nigh, most frightful dreams 

Hover about my couch in hosts. Oh, Father ! 

Life is dreadful at such cost ! 


Join the gay crowd, 
My child. Call to memory's chambers 
Blithesome thoughts ; their fragrance will refresh 
Your wounded spirit, and healing bring thy soul. 
Time is the grand disposer of events — the hour 
Of joy will come ! 



The hour of joy ! 


That was my word- 
Remember, you are A'Becket's niece. 


I will, 
And be his child. I'll think those scenes of pleasure, — 
Long since flown' — sounded depths, I thought were 

And seek for rock-based charms. 

'Twere well ! But leave me, child ! 

One who hath wronged me much 
Craves a brief interview, and comes e'en now. 


Is it Fitzurse, that you'd not have me here ? 
Forgive him ! Oh, forgive him, Father, for my sake ! 
Alas ! that ever I should have betrayed 
The Lord I loved ! — but was he not unworthy ? 
How wretched must he be, his fair fame gone ! 
Spare him ! oh ! spare him, Father ! 

Be comforted, my child. 
I will ! I will ! [Kissing her.] There ! there ! be com- 
forted ! 
I'll leave him to himself — Let conscience be his monitor. 

[Exit Lucille. 
Alas ! sweet maid, child of misfortune ! 
Untimely born, you cost a widow'd mother's life. 
But here he comes. How can I e'er forget the past? 
By him this fair field ravaged — all its flowers felled ! 
Enter] What would you, Sir ? be brief 



Then, to be brief, your pardon. 

Take it, with this request, 
That we may meet no more. 


There is a name I fain would lisp. 
Nay, name it not, it is too pure for lips 
Like thine. 


Oh ! say, she is well ! 


As well as one 
So deeply wronged can be. Farewell ! farewell ! 
You have my pardon. Pray, leave me now. You call 
To memory life's heaviest hours, which I would fain for- 


Oh ! grant that I may labor in your cause ; 

Restore myself unto your favor ; regain your niece's love. 

Art mad ? 


I trust not, Father. May I not see her ? 

Go gaze upon the lily the whirlwind hath crushed ; 
You'll see her image without paining her. 
Leave me, Sir ! [Stands lost in thought. 

fitzuese, aside. 
Alas ! why had King Henry's will more weight 
Than my dishonor ? 


Aloud.] 'Tis well ! I will ! Farewell ! 

Ruler of England, and Lord Primate, too ! 
If Fitzurse lives, this hour you shall rue. {Exit. 

Enter Salisbury. 


My Lord, those Bishops did refuse to take the oath, 
And straightway sailed for Normandy. 

Is't so ? Now comes a storm ! 


The young prince doth refuse 
To meet you, and commands that you remain 
Within the Church's verge. 


From Prince Henry, this ? 
I had not believed it, came it not from you ; 
He ever was to me a son ! 


All those of note 
Who welcomed your return, are summoned 
To give bail, upon a charge of base sedition ! 

This from King Henry ? Well, I can thunder too ! 
I'll issue an excommunication 
Against his dearest friends : the Lords De Vere, 
Clifford, and Montreuil. See this done upon the instant. 
Exit Salisbury. Enter Albert, ushering in Reginald de 
Waeenxe and Gervase de Cornhill. 
Welcome ! my noble Lords, what is your pleasure ? 


Straight as your question is our reply : 

We come as ministers of the King, demanding why 


On York's Archbishop you have passed 
Sentence of suspension, and against London 
And Salisbury, excommunication ? 


We recognize no right, either in yourselves, 

Or him, whose ministers ye claim to be, 

My reasons to demand for this, or any other act ! 


Is it come to this ? Indeed, our Henry is but King 

In name ! Mean you, my Lord, to bring both fire and 

Upon our afflicted land ? 


My acts will answer that. 


The Lords De Broc, and Nigel de Sackville, 
What of them and their many friends ? 

But this — since by their acts they've brought 
Heaven's thunder upon their heads ; they must find 
In other place than this, the power shall shield 
Them from its fury. 

Go ask their injured tenantry 
What they deserve ! Nay, nay, nay, nay, not ask ; 
But look upon the ruined father 

And his polluted child ! You'll find there's many such. 
Let this be my reply : the interest of my land 
Is my first thought. Henceforth know, noble Lords, 
That as the populace of England need a friend 
To guard them from oppression, 

That friend they have in me ! 



By this we know your feelings towards ourselves ; 

And nothing's left to say, but fare-you-well ! [Exeunt. 

Farewell to you ! What mean these haughty nobles ? 
Shall their cold words, or their unmanly threats 
Turn me from duty's path — even tho' the cries 
Of injured innocence fell not each instant 
On my ear ? Oh ! poor nobility, thou wronged name ! 
Thy nature has descended to the serf; 
There ! there alone, we find you, robed in rags ! 
Henry will know me now, for York, the chronicler 
Of each day's pettiest acts, has fled to Baieux ; 
Where England's- King, like the huge monarch 
Of all creeping things, will, squeezing 
For the pleasure of the hour, make him but one day's 

Fie on such men ! Ho ! Albert, ho ! [Enter Albert. 

Bear this to Lord Salisbury instantly. 
Command immediate execution of my will. 

Exit Albert.] 
Fitzurse is dangerous. Banishment or the grave, 
His choice ! 

Enter Salisbury, in haste. 


Father, why this ? 

'Tis my will, my son ! 


Fitzurse hath friends ! 
So hath A'Becket. Albert, bid my Lord of Blois 
Come hither J 



Father, pray hear me ! He once was held 

By you in honor. For no known offence has fallen 

From your favor ! 

Men's offences are not always known 
To the world ! 


Most true, my Lord ! 

But, upon what pretence 
May I fulfil your order ? 


On what pretence ? 
On none ! Hast lived so long with me and not know 
This ? But you are slothful in this business. 
I must have those about me who will act 
My very thoughts ! 


And is this my reward? 

For what ? 


Unbounded love for you ! Great sufferings, 
And service from my boyhood until now ! 
Father, I will away, and bid him hence ; 
You're over anxious ; this would make you 

Poor boy ! it is enough. I've worn you 
Ever by my side, as the warrior wears his sword ; 
A graceful weapon, thinking the blade true steel, 


But on the contest, finding it poor stuff, 
Casts it away ! 

I wish no meanly tempered weapon 
For my use ! 


Pardon, my Father, I spoke not thus 
In aught save reverence. I would not you should do 
What the world might scan. Men's deeds live after 

True, true, you're right, my friend ! They do ! they do ! 
At least some men's do. I was too hasty. 
Give me the order ; mine I would have printed 
In the type of justice ! for what is therein clothed, 
Shall until Doomsday live ! Bid him to me. 

Exit Salisbury.] [Miter Blois. 

Father, news has arrived, Fitzurse has fled 
The realm in rage ! denouncing you and yours, 
And swearing vengeance ! 


Indeed! and whither? 


I fear to Baieux. 

To Baieux ! To horse ! to horse ! 
There's danger in his thunder ! Speed to the nearest 

port ! 
Here, take this seal ! Arrest him on the instant ! 
Oh ! would that I were young again ! I'd post myself, 
But that this poor mortality is too feeble grown 
To bear my soul's desires ; messengers 
I will dispatch to every sea-port town, 


With orders to arrest him, though at cost of life ! 
He, of all men, I fear — for he is false ! 
And falsehood is more deadly in its touch 
Than dagger's venomed point. 

Enter Salisbury.] Salisbury, what now? 


Fitzurse has fled to Henry ! 

How know you this ? 


Your trusty Hugh is here. 
Enter Hugh, 
How know you this ? 


I saw him take a fisher's boat, 
And, cursing you, bid them spread all sail 
And steer for France. He knew me not. 
Deeming his errand hostile unto you, 
My Lord — a marc the bribe — I straight despatched, 
With those T knew to trust, the fastest craft 
That England's waters boast, with orders to arrest him. 

Well done, my son ! But were your orders sealed ? 


They were. When last you went to France you gave me 

Your seal. — \_Shoioing ring.'] 

Well thought in thee ; bring me the earliest news of him. 
Farewell,, my sons ! Pray leave me all awhile, 
I am overwrought to-day. [Eeeunt. 


Fitzurse fled to Baieux ! 
Dread news for me ! his voice has too much power 
With our King. 

Ye noiseless ministers, 
Who do in silence watch o'er the troubled spirits 
Of this world ! oh, guard with me this hour ! 
Dread horror strikes deep into my careworn heart. 
Must I give o'er — all frustrated my schemes ! 
All efforts vain ! Toiled have I oft 
By aid of Heaven's hosts from dawn to dawn, 
Ever, but brief and faint like glow-worm's glimmer 
Hath proved my rest. 

Pleasures I've tasted — 
So the worldlings say — they were as dear-bought, 
And when won, as trite, as galley slave's reward. 
Rest ! rest ! — there is no rest for me ! Ambition, 
Bitter, bitter are thy fruits ! Man fights for bubbles, 
And but bubbles gains. 

This is the song of all — 
And yet 'tis dear, as dear as is his mistress' voice, 
Heard by the lover in his midnight dreams. 
Ambition ! avarice ! glory ! love ! 
Te all but golden lures, do shine and sparkle 
Like night's spirits on your way, marking a course 
Uncertain at the best. Phantoms which all men chase, 
Yet all elude. A brief short hour of joy 
Of life's long days, is all that I have known. 

Enter Lucille — A'Becket entranced. 

Beautiful spirit ! thou who leddest my heart, 
'Mid heavenly harmonies, to those rich-gemmed courts 
Where loving spirits meet, bring comfort, courage, 
And a firm resolve from thy blessed realms to me, 
That I may bear the trials of this hour, and rule, 


Where others reign. Ah ! my fair child, is't thou ? 
Did I then but dream ? 


Alas, you did ! for I am yet but mortal. 

Nay, say not so. Consider, sweet, those words 
But as the air, passes unheeded by. 


Why so, dear Father ? 
Should we then shame to own our loves ? 


Not so ; 
But rather keep them to ourselves, as gems 
The miser stores, unknown to the world, to feast 
Upon in solitude. 

Come, child, within. 
A trump heard] There's news, 

I hear, from France — will need my care. 

Attend on me 
To-morrow. Good-night! good-night! 


Grant me but this — forgiveness for Fitzurse, 
For though I would not wed him, 

I have my heart 
O'ertasked, and fancy I may have wronged him. 

Nay ! nay ! it is too true ! too true ! 
Hereafter we will speak of this. Good-night, 
Sweet child ! Kind angels hover o'er thee ! [Exeunt. 


Hall in Baieux Palace. 

Enter Henry and Archbishop of York, 
My Lord Archbishop, what brings you here from York ? 


Suspended by the Primate of your realm, 
I could but flee to you. 


Suspended! on what grounds? 


Grounds, my Liege ? did this A'Becket e'er require 
Grounds ? His will ! his will ! my Liege — no more. 


Are you alone the sufferer by this act ? 


No ! would to Heaven I were ! London 
And Salisbury both have fled the realm 
And hasten hither. Their excommunication 
Reached them also. 


Impossible ! Is't true ? 
How know you this ? 


From their own lips I heard it. 


What would this churlish priest ? What needs he more ? 


Methinks, your crown. You'll ne'er know peace, my 

While this A'Becket lives. 



Raze from the calendar the day he came to life : 
Blot from my statute-book his seals. Oh, Heavens ! 
Am I but king in name ? 

Enter De Tracy, De Moreville, and Sir Richard Brito. 


What news, my Lords, from England ? 


My Liege, yonr Primate doth refuse 
The Lords De Broc and Sackyille to restore. 


Indeed ! Must I endure all this ? 

" Are ye all cowards, 
Who do eat my bread ? Is there not one 
Will free me from this turbulent priest ?" 
I will to England straight. Attend on me, 
My Lords. 
[Exeunt all except De Moreville, De Tracy, am? Brito. 


Heard'st thou that, De Tracy ? 


Ay, and will act on it ! Sir Hugh De Moreville, 
You've no love for A'Becket ? 


Not I ; nor you, Sir Richard. 


Not a jot, my Lord ! but I do love my King. 


Say rather, yourself — fall he, fall ycu. 

Well meet at Saitswood. and should you Fitzurse see, 


Bring him with you. His wrongs demand revenge. 
Your hands — 

Here do we swear to rid him of this Priest. 


"Wood near the Archbishop's Palace. 

fitzuese enters. 
Why bend my footsteps hither, on their way to death ? 
When last they trod these shady woods, her voice 
Fell like the music of harmonious streams, 
Taking their sinuous way through flowery brakes. 
Then spring was in her bloom, and my glad heart 
Melodiously sang, tuned to the key 
Her choristers warbled in. Now all 
In winter's icy garb is clad, and the heart's blood 
Then flowed so warm and fast to every note 
Of suffering — now is all curdled 
By my many wrongs, and throbs but with the hope 
Of keen revenge. Come on ! come on ! 
Though thou shouldst strike a benefactor's heart ! 
Come to thy work ! thy longed-for work ! 
Be steady thou, my hand ! no paltering now ! 
Did he not stay me on my way to France, 
And force return to England ? Now I will wait on him. 

Miter De Mokeville. 
Well met, De Moreville ! What meaneth this, old friend ? 
Tour looks estranged, and on your brow I read 
The workings of a troubled spirit. 



The poor old man ! 
A'Becket is doomed ! 


The poor old man ! A'Becket doomed ! 

What of that ? 
Yet how so ? Why should I feel for him ? 

He never felt 
For me, in all my sufferings. 


What sufferings? 


Sufferings ! The sharp pangs of the young heart — 
The heart that feels more keenly in one hour 
Than age's in a year ! Remember, my dear Lord, 
Tou broached this business first to me ; 
Whate'er had been my thought, it knew no word- 
no act. 


True, true, but thou art warm ! I come prepared, 
And with me other of our friends, to do 
The deed our King shall thank us for. 

Wilt thou be one of us ? 


I will! 

Albeet passes by.~\ Ho ! there ! 

Say to your master 
The Lord Fitzurse craves his ear. 

Enter De Beoc] Well met, my Lord ; 

Come not De Tracy and Sir Richard with you? 

To De Moeeville.] They did appoint this hour. 



They did, but should they fail ! 


They'll never fail ! You're pale, De Moreville ; 
Dost thou fear? 


De Moreville fear ! Lo ! where they come. 

Enter De Tracy and Sir Richard, 


My Lords, are ye prepared ? 


We but await your coming. 
Who shall demand the conference ? 


You have most cause for hate, most reason 
For the deed. 


True, true, I have most reason. 
Revenge doth urge me on ! while ye have 
But your King's dark hints. 


Which unto me's enough. 
Enter Albert, 
My Lord awaits you, Sir. 


I will attend on him. 

Wait ye without. 



Palace at Canterbury — A'Becket's Room. 

Why comes he back ? I do mistrust the man ! 
How heavy is the air — it bodes a storm ! 
My children all away ! would they were here ! 
No news from Rome to-day ! nor Henry's Court ! 
'Tis strange ! 'tis very strange ! Things all seem 
Out of tune — even my heart beats 
In less healthful time than is its wont ; 
But I am old, and cannot look in age 
For that which youth may boast. Lo ! where he comes 
With stealthy step ; why not with manly tread ? — 
That herald of an honest heart ! I will not fear 
Him, nor his friends, come they in hosts ! 
fitzurse, bowing. 

Most Holy Father ; 

The King 

He would have known better than to have sent 
You to me ! Would you deceive me ? When saw you 
The King ? Dost thou not fear my rage ? 


There's terror in the whirlwind's, but I see it not ; 
Why, then, should I fear yours ? 


Audacious youth! 

What would you, Sir ? Your errand, quickly — here, on 

this spot — 
And instantly ; though I had rather it should be 
From any tongue, than thine ! 

A traitor's voice so* angers me ! 



York, London, and Salisbury, at Henry's feet 
Have fallen. 

There let them lie ! What's that to me ? 
Yet speak. 


The King commands they be restored to honor. 

And you have borne this message ! What, should I not 


His anger! 

Thunder is heard.'] 

His anger ! Hearest thou that blast ? 
Aside.] What bodes this wintry thunder ? 


I do. 
On it, that Monarch's anger rides, 

Whom I alone do fear. 


To Henry, this ? 


To Henry ! ay, to Henry ! 
I've spoken it to Heaven ; why not to Henry ? 
fitzurse, aside. 

There is but this 

What sayst ? Speak out ! You fear 
To bear my* answer to this mock king ! Poor slave 3 


I pity thee ! Oh ! the worst master of the slave 
Is — slave ! 



Ay, Sir! To you! 
Enough ; leave me ! I am weary of this ; 
You have my answer ! 


A slave ! 
That was my word ! Leave me ! 

fitzuese, aside. 
Now will I do it. No, no, once more I'll see Lucille ; 
There'll be an hour for this. \Exit 

Enter Matilde and Lucille, 
My child ! my child ! my children, both ! 
Thus e'er come Heaven's rays in gloomiest hours ! 
All safe ! I feared for you ; so wild the storm ! 
My heart is softer than it was of yore ; 
So grows the oak with age. 


You are troubled, father ; 
What new grief? 


One I once loved was here, 
But oh ! he's fallen, like the roseate cloud 
That sinks away in darkness ; the admiration 
Of my wondering eye, begrimed and black with sin. 


But others come, as roseate as was this. 


This from thee, sweet child of sorrow? I had not sought 
From thy fair brow, philosophy ! But grief 
Is a chastener to the virtuous heart, 
From which, when bruised, as from the rose 
When crushed, the richest perfume springs. 
I must prepare for vespers. Rest ye here. 

Enter Fitzurse.] [Exit A'Bece^t and Matilde. 


Fitzurse ! 


The same. 


Aside.] I must bear up. [ To Fitzurse.] In name, but 

not in nature. 
What do you here ? And are they, then, your friends — 
Those men with scowling brows, and lips which woo 
The smiles they may not wear ? for Nature 
Never will be so belied, as paint 
Upon the foul heart's face those charms the virtuous only 

wear ! 
But speak ; what would you ? 

I fear, no good. 
fitzurse, kneeling. 
Earth's best gift, your love ? 


Arise, Sir ! leave me ! lest my frown shall strike 
Upon thy steeled bosom, with such fanged darts, 
Thy soul shall flee their power, and it shall fall 
But on a lifeless corse. 


Lucille ! 



That tone ! 
The wind thus sweetly whispers, that doth bear 
The gale, Ah, me ! Ah, me ! 


One word, and I'll no more : 
Your love or uncle's life ! 


Villain! Help! ho! 
Enter A'Becket, Salisbury, Blois, and others. 

What means this, Sir ? How came you here ? 
Salisbury, guard thou Lucille. 


Recall thy word — her hand ! 
Never ! How dare you this ? 


This ! ay, more ! 
Presumptuous man ! You know the past ! 
How dare you threaten ? 

fitzuese lays his hand on his sword. 

Threaten ! beware, Sir ! 
Lest I more than threaten ! 


Audacious youth ! 
The wrath of Heaven be on you ! Begone, Sir ! 
Leave me ! my hour has not yet come ! 

fitzuese aside. 
But will ere night — at vespers. They are too strong for 
me. [JSfefo 



Villain! I'll after him ! 

Nay, nay, my son ! 

There is no fear for us. The Church's shield will ward 
All earthly blows ; and when Heaven's falls, 
It will, whate'er our heed. 

Let's on to vespers. 
My daughters, come with me ; there's something 
Sacred in a virgin's charms, since the first birth 
Of time. So sacred, he whose warrior 
I am enrolled, called one His mother. \Exmnt. 

Yespers — The Chapel. 

Enter A'Becket, Salisbury, Blois, Matilde, Lucille, 

and attendants. 


Close ye the portals ! spare nor bolt nor bar ! 


Nay, nay, my son ! 


Oh, Father ! be advised this once ! 
Villany lurks around ! No shrine so sacred 
But it will pollute with its foul breath. 
' Oh, Father ! hear my prayer ! 


And mine ! Upon my knees, 
Dear Father, grant me but this ? Oh, be advised ! 


Fear not, my children ! To your love I would yield, 
"But 'tis not meet that we should fortify 
God's temple, like a castle." 

We need no gates, 
No bulwarks, and no arms ! If He wills we shall live, 
We will not die — if die, 'tis but for once ! 
And who would live, when by his Father called 
Unto that home, so rich in every joy ? 
Hark to the vesper hymn ! How like 
A voice from Heaven it comes ! 

My blessings be with you ! 
Low music — they hneel^\ 

He ascends the steps of the Sigh Altar. Enter the five 
conspirators and twelve companions. 


Where is the traitor, Thomas A'Becket ? 

No answer. 1 Where is the Archbishop ? 

a'becket, turning round. 
" Here am I, no traitor, but a priest, 
Ready to suffer in the name of Him 
Who redeemed me." But what do ye here in arms ? 


Take off the censures from the Prelates, 
Or instant death ! 


Never ! so help me Heaven ! 
Put up your swords ! Who dares insult his God ? 
Fitzurse, stand back ! I have done you many a kindness ; 
Touch me not ! by Heaven's arm alone I'll fall, 
Never by thine ! Think ye that I fear you ? 


Kneel at this altar, which ye have so fouPd, 

Lest that your souls alone may cleanse these stains, 

And make atonement for this sacrilege. 


Fly then! oh, fly! My oath! my oath! 


No, never! 
I am prepared to die. 

de broc, striking at him. 

Fly! or you are dead! 
Or else be borne, a prisoner, to the King ! 

Fitzurse strikes him. 


Hold ! what, thou, Fitzurse ! 


There — die ! 

The bloio glances from A'Becket on Lucille, who has 
rushed to shield him, as she exclaims — 

Fitzurse ! 


What have I done ? 

A'Becket supports her as she falls, saying : 

Stand oif ! What hast thou done ? 
My child ! my child ! earth was not dear to thee. 
Thus will we unto Heaven. [Still supporting her. 

Unto the attendants.] 

My children, sheathe your swords, 
Fitzurse, sheathe thine, and let these do the deed ! 
Thy mother drank my heart's life in our tender youth ; 
There is none left for thee. Fair Rosamond 
Had been my bride ; an honored, virgin bride, 


Had not thy father, Henry, our King, won her 
From her truth, and steeped her in dishonor. 

Fair Rosamond my mother ! [Looking at his sic or d. 


Alas ! it is too true. 

Fitzukse, to his sword. 

Come ! do thy work ! 
Thou wert his gift who gave me life ; that gone 
With her fair fame — my unknown mother's, 
Whom I have worshipped as a saint in Jieaven, 
I sheathe thee in my heart ! Her life's blood on thy blade ; 
With thee I wed, Lucille ! 

Stabs himself and falls at Lucieee's/^.] 

Xow are we one ! [Dies. 

Oh! that my loved Liege, Henry, should have known 
This hour ! How do youth's sins track man unto the 
grave ! 
Turning to Conspirators.) 
He'll curse ye, Sirs, who have done this foul deed ; 
And cast ye to dishonor ! while, with repentant ashes 
On his head — bare-footed, scourges on his back — 
He'll walk, and prostrate lie before the shrine 
Of him who now doth fall but to be canonized ; 
And when his hour shall come ; (but this, I charge you, 
Under pain of Saint A'Becket's ire, 
Xe'er to disclose till then !) 

His queen, vile Eleanor, 
Inciting foes ! for she will ne'er forgive his frailties ! 
His realm disjoined ! Sons disobedient ! 
In rebellion, all ; with none but hired menials 
Near his infected couch, this mighty monarch 


In vile rags shall die ! No regal state, no honor, and no 

love ! — 
Not e'en the love of one poor heart, for him 
Whose every love was lust, and love of self! — 
Yet, had I lived, I would have saved him 
From this last dishonor. 

Come, murder, have thy way ! My life fast ebbs. 
To God, St. Mary, and the Saints who are 
The patrons of the Church, and to St. Denis, 
I do commend myself and the Church's cause. 
You've done your worst ! 

Ye Norman Lords, here dies the Anglo-Saxons' hope ; 
To rise hereafter in a far Western land, 
Whence like the sun, with Freedom's glorious rays, 
It shall illume the Wide, Wide World ! 

Tliey kneel arou?uL~\ \He dies. 






Caxonicus, Chief of the Narragansetts. 

Massassoit, Chief of the Mohegans. 

Samoset, Chief of the Whainpanoags. 

Hoboc^omoc, Chief of the Nansetts. 

Wopowoag, Chief. 

Sasacus, Chief of the Pequods. 

Samosacus, Son of Canonicus. 

Muhtdmo, Son of Massassoit. 

Moixa, Xiece of Canonicus. 

JSTya^a, Daughter of Sasacus. 

Jo^es, a Quaker. 

Carter Bradford, ' 

William Standish, 

Henry Carver, pilgrims. 

Mary Alden, 

Scene— Plymouth Rock, etc., Neighboring Forests — a.d. 1620. 



Scene Fikst. 
Indian Council Fire — Indians seated around it. 


The moon pales in the west, as feeble with his year's 
wanderings and journeyings, the sun leaves his tent in 
the east. The brook's murmur is hushed, and in its 
face the young fawns of our tribe see their beauty 
decked in the diamond waters. The Ice-spirit is abroad, 
and the Snow-king soon will come and cast his white 
mantle over all. Brothers, it behooves me, old in years 
and in service, to see that our homes be made secure, now 
that Nature's war-shout is heard and that our young war- 
riors find the bear, the elk, and the deer; while our squaws 
seek the eels, fish, and clams. The corn is in the husk — 
have it gathered ! 


Well spoken, Great Chief of the Mohegans; winter's 
whisperings I hear. Hark, a step, firm and strong. Lay 
ye low. [They put their ears to the ground.'] 


It is a great warrior comes. There is blood of foes fills 
the air ! Ha ! the tramp of Canonicus, chief of the Nar- 
ragansetts. [Canonicus enters."] Great Brother, our coun- 
cil fire, as our hearts, languished you away, but now its 


flames will brighten, as shall our spirits. Thirty tribes by 
their bravest sons here are met. They bring tales of great 
wrongs from Acanadas — creeping snakes, who have stolen 
our hunting-grounds and driven off our game. Stolen 
our corn, we away, and even broken faith after all their 


Is it so? Canonicus knows no fear. Canonicus has 
warriors. Aye, fifteen hundred braves. They have stout 
arms and fierce hearts, Where the Great Spirit guides, 
they will go to victory or death. Let us march, each with 
his stoutest youths. The forest saplings we shall need — 
withy and tough as the green tree whence came our bows. 
Let our arrows be of the white-oak, stony-headed, hard 
like our hearts to our foes; firm fixed as our hearts to our 
friends. They have pale-faces with them, whose winged 
arrows, sightless as the wind, kill ere their bow's twang 
is heard. In an ambush we must lay, when the camp- 
fire is found, and ere the break of clay leave none to 
tell the tale. Poison waters their drink; their braves 
sleep like turtles in winter. 


'Tis well spoken, great chief. The Whampanoags love 
not the pale faces. Their winged canoes, twenty moons 
gone, stole our bravest youths. One Samosacus, your son, 
would have been chief of your tribe. But he is gone ! 


Aye, my son, my son. Canonicus may not weep, ex- 
cept they be tears of blood. What now sees my dim eye 
on the great waters ? A dancing wave ! or a gull ! So 
long have I gazed there with my heart's eyes for him, in 
vain, in vain, — Canonicus thinks each ripple may be his 



"lis a winged canoe; like a snow-flake it shows, then 
falls and fades away — anon and anon. 


Ha! Moina comes. [Moina enters.] Moina, my fair 
child ! Daughter of the spray-spirit of Amoskeag. What 
tale hast thou for thy loved one's father's ear ? 

moixa . 
As the maiden handmaid of the sun sank to slumber 
with her lord, Moina sat by the sea-shore, far out on yon 
high rock, when she spied a sparkling wave or a ripple on 
the sea, or snow-gull's feather as she thought; when lo, a 
winged canoe; aye, many wings she bears, e'en like a 
flock of birds darkening thereabouts the air; and on its 
decks warriors strong, all shining in the moonbeams, com- 
ing fast toward the shore. 


And what thy thought, my child ? 


Samosacus sailed in such. Samosacus may be there. 
Samosacus may return. 


He will, my brave girl. You yet shall be his bride. 
Let Canonicus gaze on the sea. [Advancing to shore.] A 
dancing feather, it bounds before the winds of the rising 
sun. Now it nears. It has many wings, and warriors 
crowd its decks; 'tis the pale-faced friends of our foes. 
Quench these flames, and let six young braves be as the 
wolf pursuing the timid deer; all-seeing, yet unseen. 
Each and all then to their wigwams; and at dawn, at Ma- 

12 CAX0S7CUS. [act I. 

nomet we will hear of their night's watchings, and then 
move on our f oes, near Kennebec's fierce waters. [Exeunt. 

[Pilgrims' boats land. Carver, Bradford, Wisslow, Stan- 
dish, and Pilgrims.] 


Ha ! an Indian camping-ground. Be wary, men. They 
may be friends. If so, 'tis well; if foes, we must meet 
them bravely; we must not fail. Should we, our cause is 
lost, our colony at an end. 


Captain, to you, as military leader, a man of large ex- 
perience, we must listen and obey. While I am the Gov- 
ernor chosen of our chosen few — in all 101, with forty- 
one men only, all loyal subjects of our Sovereign James 

. " "We have undertaken for the glory of God, and 

advancement of the Christian faith, to plant the first 
colony in the northern part of Virginia, and do covenant 
and combine ourselves together into a civil body politic, 
for our better order and preservation, and by virtue here- 
of shall enact, constitute, and frame such just and equal 
laws, as shall be thought most convenient for the general 
good of the colony, due precaution being taken." I would 
counsel that we rear our standard here upon this rock, 
where now a hospitable fire greets us [Fires relume] after 
our five months' weary and chill voyage — a happy augury. 


Be it so ! And let us in grateful remembrance of kind 
friends, far away, give it the name of Plymouth, and in- 
voke God's blessing on our cause. 
[They rear the standard, and all kneel around in silent 

prayer. The Indians (6) steal around, and seeing them 

at their devotions, retire quietly.] 


carver [rising]. 

Here, on this ice-clad rock, we do devote our hearts, 
our souls, our bodies, to God's cause; to the advancement 
of the Christian faith and universal freedom. 

Hark, an Indian whoop ! and here they come. 

massassoit [advancing] . 
Welcome, pale -faces — few in number; the Indian 
hordes, mighty in strength and power, would be your 


Thanks, brave chieftain. We would find you friends. 
We come as such. We bring you medicine from the 
Great Spirit, and gifts of lasting good to all. For many 
moons upon the deep, our corn, our meat is scanty. We 
would have these. Beads for your wampums and trin- 
kets we will give. 


Thanks, Great Chief; though we need them not, yet 
our young braves and maidens gladden in them. Freely 
will we give you of what we have in store. Fierce winds 
are now at hand, and snow-flakes thicker than the sands 
of the shore are upon us. Eear your wigwams; Massas- 
soit will send you aid, and in the meantime seek his 
friends. [Indians exeunt 


He boasts of his power. Let him not seek to take ad- 
vantage, for we have that here [his gun] shall strike such 
terror in their hearts, that they shall freely give all that 
we ask. 


Captain, we come in the name of the Prince of Peace. 
Our best reliance is on the guidance of our God. Al- 

14 OAXOXiCUS. [act I. 

ready this friendly Indian, coming as lie does, shows his 
love. Cast not away this favor by unworthy acts. 


Governor, unworthy acts to me, Miles Standish, your 
Captain Nay, nay; excuse a soldier, one who can- 
not forget his bluntness. 


Miles Standish, you are our Captain. Your trade were 
best forgotten until a foe appears. I am your Governor, 
selected by our people. Let no testiness disturb our har- 
mony here at the outset. Foes enough we will have. We 
must be true unto ourselves. Your hand, sir, here be- 
fore our assembled company. We are friends. 


In heart and hand ! The day wears, and the clouds 
thicken; let us haste and prepare our homes. [Exeunt 

Scene Second. 
Indian Camping-Ground at Manomet. 


Pale-faces at our wigwams' doors. Pale-faces at our 
Council fires. Pale-faces friends. So says Massassoit. 
Old chief, age dims thine eye; thy heart was ever gen- 
tle; too gentle for the chief of the great Mohegans. Can- 
onicus sees these pale-faces, as the evil spirits who haunt 
our swamps at nightfall. " Will- o '-the- wisps/'' their 
song so musical, yet so fatal — the arrow may not harm 
them; they track our steps, tho' never so silent they be, 


but there is poison in their breath to the brave sons of the 
forest, and death in their stealthy tread. Ill none of the 

pale-faces — they are like these 

Samosacus, my son, speared tho eel and dragged the 
oyster and clam from his soft bed, and bore it to their 
winged canoe, now twenty moons gone; and they sailed 
far away with him. Did they but bear him back, I 
would not be their foe — though never their friend. [Moi- 
na enters.] Moina, my fair girl. Hast thou news? "What 
says Massassoit ? 


He is not here! Samosacus has not come; I sought 
the medicine-man of our tribe, and he bids me dream six 
moons more of love and he will come. Samosacus, my 


Says he thus much? It is well. Go and dream. My 
heart is firm. Canonicus never faltered. Massassoit 
may be their friend. Canonicus will know them not. Our 
young braves have gone to seek the Acanadas. Canoni- 
cus would go, but there is now greater danger nearer 
home. [Hobocomoc enters.'] Hobocomoc, you saw their 
camp; what of them ? 


Men of peace, by their guise — save some few. Men of 
prayer by their acts — more like squaws. They build them 
wigwams — will prove their graves. They build them and 
then will go to their graves. So fast they die. 


What needs we should fear. The Great Spirit watches 
over us. Their warriors are how many ? 


As the stars seen at noonday ! 

16 canonicus. [act i. 


So few ! Have tliey food ? Have they shelter ? 


But scanty at the best — but slight for these wild storms. 


Bear them corn and deer's meat in plenty. Take fifty 
braves; tell them Canonicus will not be their friend; but 
he would feed even a starving foe — that our Great Spirit 

teaches this. 

massassoit [enters] . 

Great Chief of the Narragansetts, the pale-faces crave 
thy friendship ! 


Does the proud antlered monarch of the herd seek the 
lair of the wolf? Canonicus sent Samosacus, his well- 
beloved son, with a gift to the winged canoe, and they 
bore him away. Canonicus learns their wants, and sends 
his braves with gifts of meat and corn. Canonicus will 
watch over them; an offended father, but he will be their 
friend. They are like himself; they are flesh and blood, 
the Great Spirit made all; they shall not suffer for want 
of shelter, of food, be they not our foes. Canonicus has 
spoken. But hark ! the shouts of our returning braves. 
[Canonicus and Massassoit seated on couch of ski?is. Indian 

Braves enter ivith trophies of Victory.'] 


The Acanadas sleep. More in number than the suns of 
many years, they bite the dust. Their bones bleach the 
plains. Their blood colors the waters of the Kennebec, 
and their scalps are at thy feet, Great Chief of the Nar- 

ragansetts. [Laying down trophies.] 



Pale-faces were with tliem ? 


Are with them, great chief. Their iron bows are ours. 
They lie with our crafty foes. 


You heard no tales — no further tales of gatherings in 
the forests — of the coming of fresh foes ? 


"We have left scarce enough to bury those we met. 
Years must come ere they will war against the salt-waves' 


Were all slain ? 


All, save one, Canonicus. He called upon your name 
in the fight; the hatchet would have finished the winged 
arrow's work; but the Spirit in thy name stayed the blow. 
He is here. 


Bring the pale-face before me ! [ White man brought in J] 
Pale-face, though of our foes, Canonicus revenges not 
himself upon the vanquished. Speak — thy tale. 


A sailor, with one Merton, we landed on these shores 
twenty months past. We sought for food. An Indian 
Chief came in a bark canoe. 


My son. He lives. 



He was welcomed upon our deck. His fish and clams 
were well paid for; lie was kindly used — a gale came up 
and we were driven off to sea, and steered away for Eng- 
land. Samosacus was the guest of lords and kings. He 
slept at Windsor, and was made rich in jewels and in 
gold. He is feted and feasted. 


"What of that ? That gives him not back to Canonicus 
— that brings hirn not to the arms of M ina. You speak 
of your king — who is he? The pale-faces tell me he 
wears a crown — is seated on a golden throne — has rich at- 
tendants, glittering all in gems, and warriors at command. 
That at every step he is surrounded by an obsequious 
crew, who fawn if he but smiles, faint if he frowns. Is 
this to be a king ? 

Canonicus would have none of it. We, who are kings, 
the proudest monarchs that rale on earth, have for oar 
proud throne, our Great Spirit's footstool, one step alone 
below Him. His star-gemmed heavens our canopy — the 
untrammelled sons of the forests our friends, our braves. 
We have no fear for them, they have our love, our trust; 
and we have theirs. 

But what more of Samosacus ? You say he is feted and 
feasted. Can they give him more than we ? All the game 
of the forests, of the streams, is at our feasts. The limpid 
waters ever sparkling, as the Great Spirit made them our 
drink, ever freshening and pure. Can they give him more 
than this ? But where is Samosacus ? 


He bade me say: Should I return to his native land, 
that on the sixth moon from this he would be with his 
friends — that so England's great chief had promised. 



Such was my dream. So spake Syosset, our Medicine 
Chief — and so Moina dreams. Release your captive, 
braves. He is our friend from this — his home with us — 
a bride, fairest of our daughters, shall be the reward for 
the great news he bears us. Now to the Great Spirit be 
our thanks upraised. [Indian ceremony, and curtain falls. 

End of Act I. 

ACT n. 

Scene Fikst. 
Indians Assembled in Council. 

Canonicus and Braves of the Narragansetts — Samoset and 
Braves of the Whampanoags. 

What news, now, of these pale-faces ? "What more do 
they ? Their wigwams built against the winter's blast, 
the red man's meat and corn their food. Is it not so ? 

samoset [Chief of Whampanoags], 
Brother, it is so. And still they die like the leaves from 
the trees. 


Have they no medicine-men ? Bid Syosset go to them; 
he the most skilled of our tribe; and, Samoset, let yours 
go too. I doubt he of Massassoit is already there. 

20 CANONICUS. [act II. 


Even so — and he himself has gone together with some 
fifty braves to render aid. 


Samoset, Chief of the Whampanoags, I like not this. 
The pale-face weak, our friend; strong, were our foe. 


"We meet them at the full sun to-day. I bade them wel- 
come — as yet, find them friends ? Come with me, Great 
Chief of the Narragansetts. 


Canonicus will not go Canonicus has spoken. They 
shall not starve. He will not be their friend. Canonicus 
is the red man's friend. [Exit Canonicus and Braves. 


They meet at the full moon. Braves, we must be with 
them. [Exeunt. 

Scene Second. 

Forest and Sea view.— Moonlight. 

Whites march in on one side in great state. Indians same on 

other side. ^ 

carver [advances] . 

Great King of the Mohegans, Massassoit, in the depths 

of winter, cast upon your shores, you were our friend, 

and so with great Samoset of the Whampanoags. Tou 

gave us welcome, gave us shelter, gave us food. Now in 


the first burst of spring, when the earth is full cf prom- 
ise and of hope, we would enter into a league of friend- 
ship which shall bind us all more firmly together. We 
come to bring him word, from our Great Spirit, the 
Father of us all, to teach the red man our arts; arts that 
shall make him happy, make him rich. 

We ask but peace and unity, and liberty to worship 
God and live after our own simple ways. 


Great Chief of the Pale-faces, we have heard. The 
Great Spirit bids us give the pale-faces welcome — be his 
friends. They may share our hunting-grounds and our 
shores. The forests furnish fuel, and the clear streams 
purest waters. 


Red brother, this is true, from you and many others; 
but there are foes. Some open and avowed, some stealthy 
as the wolf. Some creeping like the snake. Massassoit 
and Samoset we know for friends. But who else have we 
as such ? 


Show the sign that shall bind, and we will soon find 
our friends. Massassoit sets his seal to it. 

carver [unrolling parchment]. 

Here's our bond, signed and sealed. Fix your marks, 
'tis all we ask. 

massassoit [lancing his arm]. 

Thus I make it— with my blood — thus with my life. 


And so does Samoset ! Brother chieftains — friends to 
the pale-faces — our great king binds us all — so let each 
bind his tribe. [Many chiefs sign.] 

22 CAXOXTCUS. [act il 


Now let this be borne to tlie Chief of the Peconics. He 
sent threats to our pale-faced friends — bid him attend us 
here. Summon the Great Chief of the Earragansetts; 
him of the strong will and the stout arm : Great Canoni- 
cus. [Exit two Braves. 


Well spoken, and better done, noble friend. May this 
day be but as that of many suns to come ; and the pale- 
face and red man be but one. Thinkest thou Canoni- 
cus will come ? Him we honor, him we would have our 
fiiend. He has nobly clone. 


A red man's tread I hear far down in the vale, but 'tis 
faint and faltering. Not Canonicus, I know. His step is 
fixed and firm; now again, from the forest it comes — 'tis 
Peconic your foe, then our foe — like a low-born dog, a 
cur, he steals along. [Chiefs escort Peconic — painted ashes 

You of the ashen face, of the Peconics, we bid you 
here. We the friends of the pale-face, we bid you here, 
their foe. Few words may we sj>eak. You their friend, 
else our foe. Such, soon the singing birds of winter 
were more in number than thy tribe ! 


Great king, such thy will, such must be ours. Massas- 
soit has the heart of all. You have my hand. [Signs the 


Where now is our brother, Great Canonicus ? Ha. I 
hear his step coming hither, it shakes the earth ! [Can- 
onicus enters,] 


canonicus [looking round]. 
He is here ! 


It is well ! 


Who are these ? Our friends ? Friends at the feast, 
friends at the fight ! braves, all. What do ye here ? Sell 
yourselves to the pale-faces ? What need of bonds or of 
your hands? The pale-face, the red man's friend; the 
red man never could be his foe. Room enough for all; 
food enough for all, while the forest gives its beasts, and 
their branches its buds — while the sea-shore gives its 
shell-fish, and its waters its fins ! The Great Spirit or- 
dains this. Who dare disobey ? 


Thy hand then to this. 


The Chief of the Narragansetts has given his word — 
there needs no hand — though the pale-face would it. 
Massassoit knows it needs it not. 


We would have some sign. 


Chief of the Pale-faces: when the pale-faces first came 
to our shore, and would have shelter, who or what bade 
Canonicus build them wigwams ? who or what bade Can- 
onicus send them corn and meats? who or what bade 
Canonicus forget that the pale - faces stole his son ? 
The same Spirit will teach him to be their friends until 
they are his people's foe — to forget his private wrongs 
while they are friends to his. 

2i canonicus. [act n. 


"We have given. We would have some pledge, some 


It is here. You know me as a friend. Read me in 
this, when as a foe. [Takes from an Indian a bundle of ar- 
rows, wrapped in a rattlesnake skin, and hands it to Standish. 
Says :] Twenty rattles had it living — a hundred deaths was 
in each. My heel crushed its head — so my arrows shall 
hearts of foes. 


Boasting chief, we fear you net. [Beadfoed whispers 
to Standish, who fills skin with powder, privately.] 

Brave son, we know you well ! Canonicus was ever as 
the sun. True as that ! we would not this ! 


Great Father, old in years. Your words are peace; 
strong in arm. Your son so wills it. Peace kept, he will 
keep it. Canonicus has spoken! 

beadfoed [returning skin]. 
Brave chief, we return thy skin ! thy gift ! 

The red man knows it not — 'tis not so he treats his 


The white man's power is now in this skin. 

canonicus [throwing it inflames]. 
To the flames then be it given. So he forgets the pale- 


face's wrong. [The powder flashes and is gone.] So fades 
away on the wind thy power. See, the red man's shafts 
are still good. [Pointing to arrows.'] Thou hast my sign. 

End of Act EL 

ACT m. 

Scene Fiest. 
Canonicus and Braves assembled. — Forest Scene. 


Nineteen moons gone, Samosacus not returned. Faith- 
less pale-faces. Moina's heavy heart gives Canonicus a 
heavy hand. Still our white brother of our wigwam bids 
her hope. [Moina enters.] 

Moina, my fond child, sweeter thy voice to my heart 
than the song of singing birds of spring. Soft as the 
murmur of the evening winds fall thy steps on my ear. 
What is thy wish ? 


Great Chief of the "Narragansetts, father to my Samo- 
sacus, Moina, thy child, asks for justice and mercy for a 
pale-faced sister. In my wigwam now she lies, heart- 
stricken, features saddened and heavy, doomed by her 
stern brothers ; turned from their homes, her kindred, 
her lover; a dark mantle o'er her shoulders, darkening 

28 oANokicrrs. [act hi. 

even her very soul, with a " scarlet letter/' bright and 
glaring, like the sun in angry cloud. 


The "Scarlet Letter!" 'Tis the badge of sin, my 
daughter, fearful sin; too pure thy ear to know its por- 
tent ! It is the white man's " Law." 


Nay, nay, she has no sin; a bird of love from her heart 
is nestling in mine. I know she has not sinned. Woman 
wit reads woman's heart, best reads her wrongs. 


Bid her here. [Exit Moina.] We will hear her tale. 
Canonicus never turns a deaf ear on the calls of mercy 
and of justice. Here she comes, graceful as the wood- 
land's fawn. [Enter Mary, Jones, and Moina.] 

Maiden, twe are thy friends. Fear not, though thy face 
is pale and fair, to uncover before my braves. Thy sex 
is thy safeguard with mine of the Narragansetts. What 
thy woe ? What thy wish ? Give me thy tale. We will 
hearken; we will act. 


Great Chief, may I speak ? Many moons have risen 
and sunk since a prisoner you took me in, fed me, and 
gave me clothes. I went to the white man on Plymouth 
Rock, as they call it, and they spurned me, and cast me 
out for a fancied wrong; saying, I was not of their faith; 
though I worshipped the same God and hoped in the 
same Saviour's love. Quaker born, they loved me not, 
would have me not. This is their mercy then. Justice — 
such is it ever; but the Chief of the Narragansetts is my 
friend, gave me all I asked. 



Gives the same to a vanquished foe. Nothing more. 
But what is this to the fair daughter of your race, now 

before us ? 


She loved, and was deceived. A man in power her un- 


'Tis as ever runs the white man's tale. Gentle maiden's 
all the sin, though guileless and pure; in the artful woer 
no offense ever found. What wouldst thou, daughter ? 


My babe, my guiltless babe. They tore it from my 
arms, my bosom. My boy ! my boy ! 


Dry thy tears ! Cease thy cry ! Thou shalt have thy 
babe — thy boy. And thy lover, wouldst thou him ? 


He has my heart, and I honored him. Though thus 
wronged, I would die for him ! 


Go, my braves — ten in number — to the pale-faces of 
Plymouth Kock. White Son will be thy spokesman. Say 
that, though Canonicus is bound by no pledge, save the 
pledge binds all mankind to their fellows, that he will 
meet their chiefs in council ere the sun is in the west, 
that Canonicus will be with them; 'tis to save their honor, 
it may be their lives. Canonicus has secret news for 

Moina, prepare; thou and thy white sister go with us I 

28 CANONICUS. [act III. 

[To Jones]. White Son. Nineteen moons have passed. 
Samosacus is not here ! 


One moon more must full and fade ere we question 
their faith. Our King never broke his word. 


He has my honor. He never will ! Now, hasten unto 
Plymouth Rock. As thy shadows we will be with thee. 

[Exeunt all 

Scene Second. 

Plymouth Rock. 

Carver, Standish, Jones, and other Indian Braves enter. 


Governor, Canonicus, the Great Chief, sent us here to 
give you word he would soon be with you with great 
news, to save your honor, perhaps your lives. 


Then at last he will wait on us. It is, friends, a mighty 
portent; it foreshadows the glory of the English rule. 
Thus tribe after tribe sue for peace with us; all were 
our friends save this proud Chief, and now even .he craves 
a hearing. 


The terror of our arms has filled the land ! Said I not, 
it would ? 


The justice of our rule, trust me, has done far more. 



A smiling Providence, through all our ills, hath ever 
shone its face. There be our praise, our thanks. 
- Enter Canonicus and Braves. 


Welcome, Great Chief, to our Council Fire. Take the 
pipe of peace and feast with us. 


Canonicus needs no pipe of peace. He never made or 
threatened war against the pale-face of the east. He 
comes as he came, through his braves, when first you trod 
his shores, and the Ice King raged and ravaged the land, 
to give you counsel, to give you care. There was danger 
to you then in the snow-cloud; there is fiercer danger in the 
storm-cloud of wrath that rides through the summer sky. 
Canonicus comes as a friend to give you warning. He 
bids you be just, be merciful. You may yet seek for 
both in a foe, and seek in vain — Canonicus' voice un- 


What mean you, great Chief ; there is terror in your 
words, yet your actions are those of friendship ? 


Then hearken to my words, as the brave does the dis- 
tant tramp. Low and close thine ear to my speech. You 
say you came in love to our shores. You fled from a 
land of fierce laws to a land of love; where free, you 
might worship your Great Spirit after your own form, 
and live in "union" and in " brotherly love." 


Even so. 



Tou tell us, this teaches to love thy neighbor as thy- 
self. Is it not so ? 


It is. 


To do unto others as you would be done by. 


Most truly so. 


Know you this man, a pale-face brother ? 


It is the fellow Jones ! 


Great warrior, thy speech is unworthy thy rank. That 
sneer sits not well on thy manly lip. Greatness ne'er in- 
sults a fallen foe. Still, as thou wouldst seem to name 
some, what may be his offense ? 


He is a Quaker ! 


Then not thy brother ? Not thy neighbor ? A Quaker, 
backed as thou art by armed warriors, thou lookest on 
him as though he were the mountain wolf; thine eye 
glares as the panther's on the deer he would devour. 
Such thy faith, canst thou ask the red man to be thy 
friend ? Dost thou not teach him to be wary and watch 
thee as a foe ? The lesson you teach we will learn, but 
may the Great Spirit of our Fathers keep us from its prac- 
tice. Such thine, and you must fall. Canonicus bids 
you beware. 

sc::xe ilJ canonicus. 31 

Moina, my fair child, where is thy friend ? [Moina 
brings in Mary.] Know ye this fair flower ? the lily of 
the vale were not more beautiful 


Aye, Chief ! She has broken our law. 


Your law ! Your law ! Be it so. "Was there no part- 
ner in her guilt ? as you choose to name it. Where is he 
whom we would name her lover, her husband, her chief ? 
W 7 here is the pledge of their loves ? Your Great Spirit 
gave the fair mother her babe; do you, but men, pale- 
face men, dare take from her what He gives ? Thou hast 
taught us He says, Vengeance is mine. If ye have no 
love, no mercy for the girl, give her her child, that it 
may shield ye from His wrath. 


Canonicus speaks well, Governor; I counsel that we re- 
store the child. 

[Mary casts herself at his feet, Moina with her.] 


Give me my child, my darling babe ! 


Arise, Moina; never kneel to the pale-faces. I and 
mine are lords here. Peace, daughter, you shall yet have 
your child. Canonicus holds the pale-faces in his hand. 
They will not he should clutch it in anger. 

Great Chief, you say she sinned. She sinned not alone; 
where is he she loved so well ; loved as only woman 
loves ? 


Off to the chase. 

32 CANONICUS. [act III. 


Pale-face, thou knowest it is not so. Canonicus reads 
thy thoughts — thou art too brave in spirit to lie. Truth 
is stamped upon thy brow, and frowns down upon thy lip 
as thou speakest. Bring him here, or Canonicus leaves 
this Council, with that untold, upon which hang your 
lives and those of all belonging to you. If you will not 
learn mercy, you shall learn justice, though Savage of the 
Forest, as you name me, be thy teacher. What means this 
mantle, this glaring litter on the gloomy ground ? Is this 
mercy? Is this justice? Her undoer has no brand, 
is not driven forth from his home — has not been robbed 
of all dearer than life. Yet he is strong, and can bear 
the forest life. She is frail and feeble as a flower; and 
but for Moina, had failed long ago. Remember the light- 
ning's flash rifts the oak, but the lily is unharmed. 
[A young man enters. Mary shrieks, and faints. Henry, my 

loved Lord ! J 


It is he ! Young chief, what means this wrong ? 


It is not my doing. 


Nay, nay; thy voice is faint. She is thy love, thy wife. 
Thou must take her to thy home with thy babe. Thy 
people's life is the price. 


My father wills it not. 


In this, thou hast no father upon earth. Hearken to 
Him who speaks from heaven. [Thunders.] 



Nay, nay; we will it not. She has sinned ! 


Aye, fearfully sinned! 


Shamefully sinned ! 


Yet, been sinned against ! 


Well sayst thou, man of peace and of prayer ! But be 
it as you say, Great Chiefs — even so — take this knife. 
[He whispers to Mary : " Fear not" He siqyports Mary with 
his left arm and holds the knife in his right.'] Now let him 
who has not sinned strike her ! even to the heart ! Can- 
onicus holds the fawn for the slaughter ! 


My Mary; my dearest Mary. [He springs forward, hut 
is held by his father and Miles Standish.] 


Not one to strike ! Not one fit to rid the earth of this 
foul blot ! Not one of all, preachers and prayers as ye 
are — without sin. 

Tear off this badge of shame, not to her, but to you 
men of years and of sin. If ever the Narragansett 
should war against ye, this after your manner shall be the 
ensign they will rear. Your hearts shall quail at its sight, 
thinking of your injustice, of the lesson taught you by 
the unlettered red man of the forest. Young chief, take 
thy bride. She is too pure, I know; but thou hast her 
love. Moina, she is faint— bring her babe; its feeble cry 

34 CANONICUS. [act IV. 

will reach tlie mother's heart and awake to life. [IZesijn- 
ing Mary to him.] Thy arm, young chief. [Giving babe.] 
Thy marriage bond ! Her life is saved. Thy wounded 
honor healed. Great Chiefs, reverse your laws. Canoni- 
cus is obeyed — thy nation's saved. A thousand braves 
await your call. Thy foe, fierce Weston, is on the march 
against you, but his days are numbered. Canonicus has 
spoken. Mercy and justice have triumphed ! Holy Fa- 
ther, Thy blessing ! Kneel, my children ! 


Take her, Henry ! take him, Mary ! ye are one ! 

End of Act HI. 


A beautiful Scene near Canon icus' Wigwam — Moina sitting at the 
foot of a Waterfall. 


Twenty moons have come and gone. Spring's flowers 
nave bloomed and are buried. Summer's fruits are 
come again, and the autumn nuts shall fall, but Moina has 
no Samosacus to gather them for her. The fair daughter 
of the pale-face chief has her brave and her babe. Can- 
o:iicus sought and found both for her, and gave her life. 
Why may he not bring Samosacus to me, who have loved 
now so long. The leaves rustle through the winds, mur- 


muring through the tall grass, where the deer loves to 
feed. Now they come to quench their thirst, while Moina 
tells her tale to the music of the waters — they heed her 
not, fear her not, for she loves them as she loves all the 
Great Spirit made. The sun is high, and the heat fierce. 
Soon our young braves will seek thesfe waves. Moina 
must away ere they come to spear the fish. Too long 
have I tarried, but my love fills all time. Moina knows 
no nights, no days; all are as one, Samosacus not return- 
ed. The young braves are here, and with them the 
young Muntumo, the proud, painted warrior of the Mo- 
hegans, who seeks my love, but it is gone ! 

[Indians enter, and Moina retiring, turns bach'] 


Why wilt thou away, fair Moina ? We came to stalk 
the deer and spear the fish. Had we known 'twould 
fright thee away, it had not been so. Some other time we 
had sought them. What does the fair child of Canonicus by 
the murmuring stream ? Would she the voice of love ? 
Muntumo will sing her songs; tell her tales of the past; 
tales of the fight. Will wear twenty scalps in his girdle, 
and hunt the deer alone for her, if she will but sit in his 
wigwam and be his bride. J Tis the son of Massassoit, 
Great Chief of the Mohegans, has come to sue for her 


Moina hears it all. Moina is heavy-hearted. Brave 
Muntumo, Moina has no love to give. It is gone. 


Moina has no love ! Yet she lingers by the banks of 
the Merrimac. She watches its clear, limpid waters come 
welling up from the rifled rock, go dashing down the hill- 

38 CAjSTONICITS. [act iv. 

sides, stealing under the dark, old forests; receiving into 
its transparent bosom each little brooklet, rivulet, and 
river that hastens from miles around to pay tribute to its 
conquering way, until at last a broad, sparkling, beautiful 
sheet of water pours its flowing wealth into old ocean's 
briny depths ! And has Moina no ear for love, hearken- 
ing to all this ? 


Moina has love for all; not for one, proud, brave, Mun- 
tumo. Moina would light the fire in a wigwam of her 
own tribe. 


Light but mine, our tribes shall be one. Canonicus 
has no son. 


Thou sayest not true. He has a son. Samosacus is 
away; now many moons gone. Samosacus will be here. 


Not Samosacus of thy tender years, of thy love. I read 
thy tale. Pale-face arts have spoiled thy boy. Moina 
loves an Indian brave, not the petted puppet of the pale- 
faces' show. 


Moina loves but once. These waters have but one song, 
ceaseless, undying. So Moina. Thy love I prize, 'tis of 
one brave and good. Saugus the Chieftain, too, hath 
borne his gay present of murmuring sea-shells. It could 
not tempt my girlish heart. So I sighed his love away. 
Muntumo has my honor, he is great and good. Muntu- 
mo has my thanks, shall have my prayers. 


Samosacus will not come, fairest daughter of the forest 
— he dallies far away. 



Nay, nay; not so. He will come. Hark that tramp; 'tis 
the tread of friends — Canonicus, Father, and ha, Sam- 
osacus ! [Enter Canonicus, Samosacus, and braves.'] 

Samosacus ! Samosacus ! [Sinks in his arms.] 


My Moina ! 


Great Father, this thy act. Thy heart of love works 
for all. Samosacus, thou dost not speak. 


Thy beauty strikes me dumb, fair Moina, like the sun 
on awakening sight; thy brightness dazzles all. I see, I 
feel but thee. Father, thou hast cared her well. 


But how came you here, and Moina not at the shore ? 


Many miles from this lies the winged canoe bore me 
home from England's shore; but of this, by and by, and 
the wonders met my sight. Samosacus has journeyed 
long his Moina to greet. Samosacus is weary. 


Quaff these limpid waters, they will give thee strength. 
An Indian brave, thou knowest their power. Kneel with 
me at its fount — the lily shall be thy cup, gemmed all with 
dew ! [Moina kneels, and gives wzter out of lily leaf.] 

Braves, add your voices by this bright water so glitter- 
ing in the sun, making gay music in our homes; gladden- 
ing the hearts of all at return of Samosacus, our son. 

38 caxonicus. [act iv. 


Our pale-face brother spake the truth. 


Thy pale-face brother, where is he ? I knew this not. 


A brave took him prisoner in the fight and brought him 
home. He spake of thee; called thy name, and we wel- 
comed him. He told us of thy fate, after many moons 
of mourning, and said thou wouldst be here twenty 
moons gone, and he was true. The pale-faces call him 
u Quaker," call him Jones, and will have none of him. 


Jones his name ? He was my friend. There is an- 
other waits without. Roger Williams he is called; chosen 
servant of the Great Spirit. Driven out by the pale-faces, 
he journeyed south; our paths crossed. I spake in his 
tongue. He told me his tale. I brought him hither. 


Thou hast done well ! Persecution marks their steps — 
these Plymouth men ! [Enter Roger Williams, with staff 
and bundle.] Bid him hither ! 

Pale-face brother, thou hast my heart; here art wel- 
come. Last moon thou wert in favor; what thy fault 
with thy pale-faced friends'? What thy teaching, that thou 
art driven out ? 


Great Chief of the Narragansetts, thou more than 
friend to my people, since thou hast dared to tell them 
wherein they erred; thou wilt not think the less of me 
when I say, my fault, my only fault is in that I preach- 
ed, " that the civil magistrate should restrain crime, but 

scene i.] CAiiroNictrs. 39 

never control opinion. Should punish guilt, but never 
violate the freedom of the soul." For this they have 
banished me from my home, from my friends; but the 
Great Spirit, who governs all, will guide me to another, 
where I shall gather together warm, true hearts, and 
found a State where the purest principles of civil and re- 
ligious liberty shall prevail. 


"Well hast thou spoken. Well hast thou done, thou 
faithful minister of the Great Spirit. My braves shall 
guide thee to a home worthy of thy pure, rare nature; an 
island girded by the sea, long the sacred resting-place of 
the warriors of our tribe, who, great in battle, council, or 
in chase, at last yielded to the grim foe of all. This shall 
be yours, and those you may appoint, a recompense 
for your earnest action in Mary Carver's cause; as thou 
hast won it by service to her, the fairest of her fair race; 
so thine shall be the land from which shall spring the 
loveliest of their sex throughout this clime, nursed by the 
balmy breezes from the south. 

Samosacus, our son, though just returned, shall be your 
escort, with fifty braves. Be wary, for the Pequods, star- 
like strong, are on their march. I and my braves with their 
great chiefs, Pokanoket and Massassoit, will haste to meet 


Moina weeps. Samosacus just returned. 


Truly Moina weeps, but they am tears of joy, that 
honor, such as this, should be for him. 

40 CAsroisricus. [act v. 


Thy blessing on us ere we go, Father of the pale-face 
and the red man of the wood. 

[Indian war-dance; then they kneel, and Roger Williams 
blesses them.] 

End of Act IV. 


Scene First. 
Indian Camp— Waterfall — Hour, Morning. 


The bird of morn sweetly sang as Moina's eyes were 
kissed by the early light of dawn, and told her heart Sam- 
osacus would be home with many scalps of foes in his 
belt, and many prisoners in his train. He must have met 
the great chiefs of the Narragansetts and Mohegans with 
their white brothers as they call them, and joined them 
in battle against the Pequods and the tribe of Winslow. 
Ere he comes, I will deck me by the side of these glassy 
waters, for my bridal is at hand. [She decks herself.] The 
beauties of lovely maidens have been reflected in this 
glassy mirror. Mighty warriors have washed the paint 
from their faces, and the blood from their hands in its 
bright waters, and deeds of nobleness, of daring, of out- 
rage have been planned on its brink. [Mttntumo enters.'] 

Ha, Muntumo of the Mohegans, what wouldst thou in 


the chamber of Moina ? From day's early hours our tribe 
have given this spot to its daughters as their own. But 
thou art faint, and there is blood. What means this, brave 

Muntumo ? 


Love for thee, fair Moina! The white man, Carver's 
son, used thy name with foul speech, detracted from thy 
fair fame. 


He whose bride Moina saved? He whose babe, our 
Great Father Canonicus sought and found ? He whose 
honor he healed, and whose sick heart he cured? He 
used Moina' s name ? 


He did, and though faint and weary with the long fever, 
I told him 'twas false. He struck me; I felled him to the 
earth with the little strength I had left, and he stabbed 
me to the heart. Snake with the forked-tongue, I left 
him stunned by my blow, and tottered here to die, that 
the warrior might sleep where his heart only lived; near 
her, the child of him he so honored, great Canonicus. 


Nay, nay: thou shalt not die. Taste these waters 
[gives drink from dream], they are strong, full of life, and 
will give it thee. Thou shalt not die. Moina bathes thy 
brow. Thou art pale. [She supports his head.] Thou 
art faint. My childhood's friend, my childhood's lover, 
though I would it not. Art thou gone ? there is no breath 
— there is no sigh ! 

[She stoops to list his breathing. Samosacus and his braves 



Ha, Moina ! and my foe ! Moina, dost thou well ? 

42 CANONICUS. [act v. 


Muntunio is no more. The Great Father has called 
him home. Faint, he fell at my feet, and I bore him 
water. I bathed his brow. What meanest thou, Samo- 
sacus? Thou tumest away with a storm-cloud on thy 


Thou bathest his brow! Thou kissedst his lips! In 
death your spirits mingled. Samosacus mourns thee 
gone. No Moina has he now. 


Cruel brave, this is not so. Monia kissed him not ! 
Moina had been thy foe, had she done but as she did. 
Thou hadst not loved her had she failed in the office and 
the hour when maidens shine most lovely — by the side of 
suffering, by the side of death ! Thou sayest no Moina 
hast thou now. It is well. Jealous grown — wronging in 
thought— no Samosacus have I now. I loved him of 
my youth. Samosacus left my side — his pure nature 
changed. The pale-faces have turned his heart. 


And the fate of war turned his eye, when lovely as the 
dawn of day, graceful as the swaying lily — the daughter 
of Sasacus, the Sachem of the Pequods— fairest Nyana, 
gave beauty to the scene. 


Ha ! is it so ? May Samosacus be blessed. May Nyana 
be happy. There is no Moina more. Young braves bear 
Muntumo to the foot of the falling waters. He was 
great, he was good ; his burial shall be in honor. Hark ! 
a tramp is on the air. 'Tis Canonicus comes ! [Canon- 
icus enters.] Dear father, at my feet, death-wounded by 


the poisoned fang of the double-tongued pale-face— 
whose fair bride, whose babe, v> T hose honor you saved — 
fell Muntumo, with the tale that the pale-face slurred her 
name — the name of her who was their friend — Moina, 
thy child. He said that it was false, and the pale -face 
pierced his heart. His last words were of you. You 
must render him the last of earth's honors ! 


Brave Muntumo, art thou gone ? Thy heart knew no 
guile ; thy hand no blood, save blood of foe. Thy honor 
thou hast left to me, and thou shalt be avenged ! Bear 
him near to me, young braves. May his life be your 
guide. Let thy maidens, Moina, join — rare the service 
we will show him. 

Scene Second. 
Plymouth Rock — A Council, Indians and Whites. 


Great Governor of Plymouth Rock, now two years 
absent from my land, but just returned son of the Nar- 
ragansett, I joined your warriors with our braves against 
the Pequods, and in my train have many prisoners. 
Some are maidens young and beautiful. Some are chief- 
tains brave and strong ; and one, the Sachem of the 
Pequods, brave Sasacus, fell beneath my blow. It was 
my part to claim his life had I listed. His daughter, the 
beautiful Nyana, smiled through her tears, and turned 
my arm. As my captive I claim his life, and to his na 
lands would £'ive him back. 

44 canonicus. [act y. 


Never so ! Our foes increase — such, f oily shown toward 


His death would best serve our cause. 

"Warrior, but for my father's alms, my father's counsel, 
my father's care, Plymouth Bock ere now had been no 
more. Think of that ! His blood would do ye no good. 
His hate is all gone. His friendship may be yours. I 
ask but my rights ! 


Valiant son ! I have heard thy speech. It is well. The 
pale-faces have no - rights here. As our friends, we will 
guard their lives and their honors. [To Whiles.] Ye 
seek the life of Sasacus. This may not be. He is a brave 
sachem, kind and merciful, and has a right to the same 
usage he gives others. 


Canonicus, it is our law ! He dies. 


Your law! Is this the law your Greit Spirit teaches? 
Far other lesson our Great Spirit has taught us ! 


Your Great Spirit! How know you that there is a 
Great Spirit ? 


See you these footprints in the sand ? How know you 
that men have been here ? 

I look aloft into the boundless sky. I gaze upon the 
fathomless deep. I wonder at the countless beauties of 

scene n.] CANONICUS. 45 

earth, and at His thunder shrink with awe, and yet you 
ask how I know that there is a Great Spirit ? There is — 
there is, I know. I feel there is, for does He not dwell 
within this narrow heart and yet fill all the world? 
Braves, bear Sa^acus in honor to his home ! My son, be 
he your charge. [Exeunt 


Not so, brave chief. He must die. [To a soldier.] 
Go, watch their steps. 


Governor of the pale-faces ! say you so ? 


*Tis our law ! 


This is your law ? * What is your law, then, for foul 
murder done ? 


Death is its penalty ! 


"When the pale-face does the deed ? 


Even so ! 


Bring hither young Carver, the governor's son. [Henry 
Carver enters.] Young man, there is blood upon thy 
hand ! The blood of my friend, the brave Muntumo ! I 
gave you your bride, your babe, and more — your, honor. 
You sought to stain the honor of my child — the peerless 
Moina. Muntumo knew 'twas false. He spake it. You 
struck him. He felled you to the earth, and you stabbed 
him to the heart — he died ! Was this well done ? Pale- 
faces, thy law is death. Give me this boy's life for my 
friend's. 'Tis thy law ! 

46 CANONICUS. [act v. 


Nay, nay. He did but avenge a blow ! 


Muntumo sought to avenge my fond child's good 
name, thus illy spoken ! Whose offense was the greatest ? 
The blow given her fame would last for life. That Mun- 
tumo gave thy son (though in answer to his first ren- 
dered) was washed out by gentle words and felt no more. 
Again will the Chief of the Narragansetts ask ye justice. 
He will pardon thy son for the sake of his bride — his 
babe — but he saves brave Sasacus, and sends him in 
safety home. 


Nay, nay ; this' shall not be. Rather a pale-face should 
die than this fierce chief be free. [To Carver aside.'] 
There is old Jones. He is no use now. Let him be hung 
instead. Besides, he merits it for other faults. This 
will appease the chiefs, and Sasacus be ours ! 

Be it so. Bring him disguised in Henry's clothes. 

[Exit Standish ivith guards and Henry, 
canonicus [aside]. 
These wily chiefs ! They say the red man is untrue, is 
like the snake ! That they cannot trust him. They have 
one law for themselves, and one for the red man. Yet 
this is justice ? Had Muntumo slain his son, Muntumo 
must have died. His son slew Muntumo — but only a son 
of the forest. 'Twas no offence; he is free; he lives. 
[Standish enters ivith guard, and old Jone3 disguised and 


Canonicus, thy victim is here, bound hand and foot. 

scene ii.] sosrrcus. 47 

Tlie rope is around his neck. A tree is near. Take him, 
and we take Sasacus. 

canonicus [looking around]. 
[Aside.] A fraud ! I see it all, and I will prove it such ! 

[Going up to culprit, he lohispers, " Fear not." Aloud :] Pale- 
face, thou must die. Thy minutes are numbered ! Yet 
thy Medicine Father is not here! [Turning to Caeyee.] 
Pale-face Chief, let one be sought. He must die in the 
faith you teach. Hast thou no mercy for thy son, thy 
eldest child, thy only son ? We red men know not the 
cord. The arrow bears our death warrant. 

[To Caeyee.] Take you this rope; there grows a tree 
of a thousand summers. I would thy son have a forest 
monarch for his monument ! 


I cannot hang my son ! Even your hard heart would 
ask not this ! 


Thou needst not hang him. Only adjust the rope; the 
rest were easily done. 

caeyee [doing it]. 
This, I will do ! 


And this will I. [Severing the rope.] Pale-faces, I scorn 
ye. Ye who would add fraud to murder. Braves, this is 
our old friend Jones, in this man's son's attire. I knew 
it from the first. Bear the brave old man to his home 
with us. Death shall be the portion of all who disturb 
him — now blind and deaf, and without speech in his age 
and sufferings. Miles Standish, this is not good. Thy 
race is doomed. Such acts, then death. Pale-faced 
Chief, thy honor is gone. Canonicus would scorn to crush 

48 CANONICUS. [act v. 

such a reptile with his foot. [Exits.'] Sasacus is in safety 


Governor, this Canonicus will ruin our settlement. He 
befriends all our foes. We must be rid of him ! 


Yes, the sooner the better. Make Massassoit his foe. 


'Twere easily done. Muntumo, his child, died with 
them. Send peace and presents, too, to the Pequod 
Chief. Sasacus will be won over. 


Miles Standish, see it be done forthwith. [Exeunt. 

Scene Third. 

Canonicus' Encampment — Early dawn. 

[Samosacus and Nyana enter.'] 


Fair Nyana of the Pequods. Thy father is saved! 
Brave S sacus has his home, and his nation is at peace. 
Thou hast heard my tales of my warlike tribe, and of the 
bright waterfall makes music in my home — it is here. 
Thou hast heard my vows of love. Your father gives thee 
me. Wilt thou not be my bride, the light of my home ? 
I will away to the chase and bear the game. I will to the 
wars and bear the trophies, if thou wilt but be my love ! 



With a heart like thy fountain, brimful of trusting love. 
A welcome bright ever in her eye, and warm in her cheek. 
Nyana will watch thy return to thy home. Nyana saw 
Samosacus, as she saw the sun of life. Nyana will be 


Come, then, to my wigwam, where the choicest skins 
are spread for thy rest, and ere the day is done I will pro- 
claim thee my bride. [Exeunt. 

[Moina enters decked as for a bridal, and sees them as they 
pass out.] 


The mellow dawn has broken once more. The bird of 
morn is on the wing; the loved music of the waters gently 
kisses Moina's cheek. Soon they will kiss her cheek, her 
wan, pale cheek; as she pillows it there, bathe her flushed, 
her burning brow. Cool this raging thirst at her heart, 
and bear her spirit pure like their spirit pure to the hunt- 
ing-grounds of the blest. Samosacus loves Nyana. She 
is fair. Samosacus is dead to Moina; for Moina Muntu- 
mo died. Moina now dies for him ! I will climb the gray 
rock, where the eagle only soars. Bathed in a flood of 
golden sunlight, upon its summit I will stand for the 
last time. 

[She ascends the rock — morning rays beaming upon her.] 
May the Great Spirit bless their bridal. May their 
race be without number. May their glories glow forever, 
and outshine all other tribes. 

CANONicus [enters]. 
Moina ! My Moina ! Canonicus heard thy voice — the 
only music to his heart ! Where art thou now ? Where 


ail thou now ? Ha ! braves, see her there ! Quick, seek 
the path, unseen by her, and bear her hither. She raves. 
She is mad — her voice hushed. My hearth-fire is quench- 
ed. Ganonicus knows no home. Dear Moina, my child 
retrace thy steps; hasten hither. 


Like the eagle in his swoop, Moina seeks the pool. 
His victim, the golden fish — hers, her wounded, broken 
spirit. Canonicus, Father, Moina comes ! 
[She springs into the air and falls in the pool. Canonicus 

rushes forward and drags her out almost lifeless.'] 


My wounded deer. My gentle fawn. Pet dovelet of 
my warrior heart — thy hand is warm, thy brow is flushed, 
but thy tongue is mute, thine eye is dimmed. Here is no 
breath — thy bosom is still ! Thou knowest no sorrow 
now. Thou art blessed. Faint grows my strength, firm 
grow my foes and many. My own house is not true. 
Samosacus won thy heart, for a f i.ncy cast it away. He 
seeks a stranger bride for his home. He will find his 
death, his ruin! Ha, what means this warrior shout. 
There is a foe in our camp. Young braves, meet them 
there. Canonicus guards his child ! 

[Massassoit and ivarriors enter.'] 


Muntumo, thy shade is here ! Canonicus, thou slewest 
my son. So says my pale-face brother ! 


So s lying — he lies! 


Great Chief, you loved him not. He sought the fair 
Moina. He died at her feet. Samosacus was his foe. 



A father's bleeding heart hearkens to every tale. Mas- 
sassoit knows well the Narragansett Chief. He knows he 
cannot lie. 'Twas the foe of our race slew thy son. 


'Twas ever so. You hated the pale-faces. They were 
good to the Mohegans ! They gave long life to Massas- 
soit, and he loved them. They are his friends. They 
bade him here find his son, his heir ! 


So you may. You away, I bore him here; laid in state 
until you should come. My braves are by his side — they 
guard his couch, Moini, my fair child, whom he loved, is 
with the flowers; the lilies were her death-couch — than 
their perfume, her breath more rare. Muntumo's last 
minutes she soothed. His last words were to her. Her 
last were for him. Braves, bring here Muntumo. One 
grave shall be for both. Old chieftain ! my child ! [Dis- 
playing Moina.] Massassoit, rest you here. A doub'e 
burial claims your honor. 
[The Indian funeral wail is heard. Samosacus and braves 

enter, bearing Muntumo, and lay him on a hillock near 



Brave Muntumo; fair and dear Moina. Ye now are 
one. \To Muntumo]. I would my arrow had pierced thy 
heart. My anger slew my love. I took a strange bride, 
found her false; already has she fled my side ! 


Samosacus, thou seest thy deed ! Was this worthy thee, 
worthy my son ? Shall Canonicus call thee his ? Blood- 

52 CANONICUS. [act v. 

stained art tliou in his sight. Thou canst not paint so 
thick hnt he will see thy face all gory with Moina's blood. 
Thy strange bride will prove thee false; thy strength will 
fail thee 'neath her arts, and thy name be writ in water. 
Thoult leave no heir; thy race is done, and in thee dies 
out mine. Hark, a warrior shout comes on the wind. 
Stand firm, my braves, all. If 'tis foes, use thy arms; if 
friends, they will share our griefs. Canonicus guards 
Moina ! 

[Eater band of Pequods and ivhites, guided by Nyana, who 
retires unseen by Narragansetts.] 


Canonicus, thou art our prisoner! Our avowed, our 
open foe. You have sent aid to Eoger Williams. You 
have given him lands; have given a home ! 


Is this all? 


Strong in braves, you wounded our honor by subvert- 
ing our laws. You taught evil lessons to our young. You 
freed our foes. For thy reward, behold our friends [the 
Pequods]. Dost thou not fear? [Thunder heard.] 


Hear'st thou that voice ? Aye, thou tremblest at the 
sound. Canonicus knows its portent. In the voice of 
truth, which he has ever worshipped, ever followed, Can- 
onicus hai no fear ! Canonicus bows to no man ! 

sasacus [enters], 
Samosacus, where is my child ? Young Manomet was 
her brave ! She had given him her love, and you stole 
her from his side. 



Great Sachem ! Tliou knowest 'tis false. My prisoners 
you were taken. I saved your life. Her beauty touched 
my heart. You bade me, could I win her love, to keep 
her my bride ! I wooed her. I won her, as I thought. 
My Moina I feared was fickle, was false. She is dead. 
She is no more ; and Nyana is gone ! 

nyana [springing forward]. 
Not so, Narragansett — fierce foe of my house. Nyana 
is here, and Manomet has her love. 


Nyana, art thou false? Thou stolest my heart; thou 
stolest my life. ■ My vanquished foes, I gave ye freedom. 
Treacherous friends, I know ye no more. 


Lying youth ! thy hunts are numbered. Pequod war- 
riors, seize them all. Braves of pale-face chief, join your 
strength. Old wrongs shall here be settled. Massassoit, 
they slew thy son. Muntumo's spirit walks the gloomy 


This in my camp ! Treacherous foes ! This at the 
peaceful burial of our best beloved. Put up your arms 
and leave my home. Canonicus ever honored yours. You 
have no wrongs. He has many, but he calls them not 
from their graves. He buried them long ago, and would 
not wake them into life. Ha! an arrow in the air; what 
new foe in our camp? Braves, to arms. We'll meet them 
there, though more in numbers; we yet are strong. Mas- 
sassoit, send thy braves; we ever fought side by side. [Exit. 


Massassoit has grown old. He cannot hear. The pale- 

54 CANONICUS. [act y. 

faces are his friends. Braves, join them; be firm and 

fixed. Muntumo is no more. Ye know his fate. 

[Clash of arms and battle-shouts. The Pequods, Mohegans, 

and whites against the Narragansetts ; at length Samosacus 

falls ; while Canonicus endeavors to shield him, young 

Carver stealthily wounds Canonicus.] 

Ha! is it thou? Where was thy bride? where was 
thy babe, thy honor, to stay, thy sword has drunk the lif e- 
blood of him who once loved thee well. [To Massassoit.] 
Old chief, my voice is faint, and though thy ear grows deaf, 
and thine eye is dim, Canonicus bids thee beware of false 
friends. Many moons now gone, we were at peace, but the 
winged canoes touched our shores. 5 Twas an ill-omened 
bird ! The pale-faces sought our lands. They poisoned our 
waters, they wasted our forests, they slew our game, de- 
stroyed our shell-fish. Our corn has failed, and we are poor. 
Canonicus told you this. Canonicus loved the m not, but still 
he was their friend. 'Tis for this they have stolen his life. 
J Twas little worth; his Moina with the flowers His Sam- 
osacus a stricken oak. His race is done, and so with thine 
aged chief. Muntumo no more. Bear him here by my 
side; lay Samosacus at our feet, with Moina, darling, in 
my arms; last of his race, Canonicus dies. But accursed 
be this spot to the pale-faces. The richest of a thousand 
hills, with the sweetest waters in the land, they shall weep 
themselves out for Moina in bitter tears, which evermore 
shall parch the thirsty lip. 

A thousand deer have fattened here and fallen. Not a 
blade shall it ever bear, for the false pale-faces' use. My 
curse is on it. 

Canonicus, the last of the Narragansetts, is avenged ! 

[He swoons and dies, and curtain falls to slow music.] 





Why will ye all be so gloomy and sad 

When smiling, our dear mother earth looks so glad, 

When the fish in the lake swims gaily on, 

And the lark sings on high, her matin song. 

Leave sorrow for winter — 'tis the spring-time of year, 
When earth's scenes are gay — their heavens are clear, 
When the twittering birds teach their young how to fly, 
And on their light pinions, soar off to the sky. 

Then teach ye your young, by gladness and cheer, 
Their lot, if a sad one, with light heart to bear, 
That on virtue's wings they may safely fly, 
And reach, at the last, a haven on high. 

That as fall's piercing winds and winter's chill blasts 
Fall sharp on the ear, while we know they'll not last, 
And as spring-time will come and flowers will bloom, 
So pleasures and griefs are man's lot to the tomb. 

September, 1873. 

There's rare joy on high, aye, rich joy in Heaven, 
Bright angels have welcom'd, their sister was given, 


58 POEMS. 

To cheer this dark earth, with its sins and its fears; 

Lo ! she's wreathed in smiles, while we're bathed in tears. 

Mourn not, fond Sisters, Father, proud in love, kneel, 
And bowing thy head, in humility feel, 
Though 'reft from us here, the flower was given, 
Blooms with rare beauty in the bright courts of Heaven. 

So lovely by nature, so gentle to all, 
Why marvel, the angels our dear Mother call, 
Her voice of the spheres — ever gracious her ways; 
She shone, upon earth, one of Heaven's bright rays. 

Weep not, fond Father, but on those she loved 
Lavish the tenderness you ever showed 
To our dear mother, thy youth's chosen bride. 
The cherished of Heaven, thy jewel, thy pride. 

There's rare joy on high, aye, rich joy in Heaven, 
Bright angels have welcom'd, their sister was given 
To cheer this dark world, with its sins and its cares, 
The wreath of her smiles gems penitent tears. 


The Shepherd, low reclining on the sward, 
Surrounded by his gentle, bleating sheep, 
Doth seem the very prince of indolence, 
But nature's wonders never let him sleep. 

TJnto the mind of him, thus simple, seems 
The world affords far many a happier dream 



Than crowded paves, or converse of the great, 
Which on man's brow but seldom casts a beam- 
E'en then its rays do blister where they touch, 
And in the whirl which rages in his brain, 
He learns that honors are not easily won, 
That riches, power, pride, are all in vain, 
That none but waters from Heaven's pure springs flow, 
Bring to the toiling spirit a healthful glow. 


His own, his presence — His an eagle eye, 

Far peering into futurity. 

His mind a marvel, as the age he lived. 

His virtues great. His wondrous worth unknown. 

Perfection rare, childlike simplicity, 

He reared a fame, so monumental 

That it fills the world : high over all 

Save him, our Washing-ton — his only Peer. 

One wrung from despot, freedom for our land. 

One burst the bonds of slavery bound her sons, 

And with prophetic ken, made them the equals of all 

The act which wrought it, was by Heaven inspired ; 
The sages of the land in council met, 
Faltered in giving to the world, the words 
Bore to oppressed, the boon of Freedom. 
With eye uplifted, clasped hands, he prayed: 
" Teach me, my God, what best to do " — is heard — ■ 
" Sages, I give it to the world " — he said, 
Bebellion prostrate laid — 

Slavery forever dead. 

60 POEMS. 


Apejl, 1865. 

Abound his bier they stand, 
Our Hero's chosen troop, 

The leaders of his famous band: 
A sad, a silent group. 

No whitened tent-sail now 
Flaps in the swelling gale, 

But round his death-couch bow 
Hearts never known to quail. 

The proudest trophy man 

Can ever boast on earth, 
The highest honors ever worn 

Born of an earthly birth, — 

All, all are his — his own, 
Earth hath no more to give; 

He is marching on to his life-won home, 
Where only the " chosen " live. 


Nevis, thou lonely sea-girt island, where 

The softest music is old ocean's roar, 

And the loud thunder, with sharp lightning's glare 

In awful grandeur, fills the quaking air. 

He was indeed thy child, firm as thy rock 

Amidst the raging sea, fixed was his soul 

In noblest principles — his nature even 

As the elements are, pure as high heaven. 


Their spirit dwelt in him; when but boy 

He stretched his longing eyes out on the main, 

And sought his home in a far distant land, 

Where 'gainst oppression's justly hated hand, 

Noble and free in nature, like their own wilds, 

Brooking no tyrant's sway ; fore'er to strive, 

No toil — all danger dare — no death, to die, 

Men warred for their homes, and liberty. 

He yet but boy, saw what it was they sought, 

He told them where to seek — and taught them well, 

That ne'er a smile was won by suppliant knee; 

But that the heart must brave and noble be, 

Upon whose brow the light of liberty 

Brightly would shine. That vestal flame, 

Unguarded, it would flicker, fade and fall, 

And Tyrants' chains, ignoble souls enthrall. 

His thoughts were like to the resistless wind, 

Unseen, yet felt, wherever they were turned. 

Like earth's great source of light, burnt with fierce flame, 

Love in his bosom, for his country's fame. 

Mighty his mind — his memory never failed, 

A storehouse, where in seemly order laid 

Bare gems, collected from all wealthiest mines, 

Bich fruits of learning, from each age, each clime. 

In nature, as the ermine pure, ever the same 

To the world's mendicants, or the sons of fame. 

"When he was " taken off " his mourners were the world ! 

All nations wept. His murderer's name was told 

Where'er he walked. The air, burden'd with his blood, 

Speeding, to all, that dread deed did unfold. 

A fugitive from his outraged land, 

Seared on his brow the assassin's brand, 

Burr's stealthy step was heard on great France's floor, 

" Admit him," said Prince Talleyrand— but say — 

62 POEMS. 

" Hamilton is my household god " — 

" His image guards my door." * 
Abashed, Burr skulked away, never to cross it more. 


The mightiest men whom this great age hath known, 

Were born in islands, 'neath an ardent sun; 

In their rare natures — his pure essence burn'd. 

Scarce in their teens when life had but begun, 

One, sought by arms and war to rule the world; 

The other, by great knowledge yet untold. 

One lived the fear and terror of mankind, 

And dying, left a bloody fame behind. 

The other lived honored and loved by all, 

Wept by the great and good, his early fall. 

Both born in islands, girded by the deep ; 

Both roused the world from its lethargic sleep. 

Napoleon lies in Les Invalided tomb, 

While bloody memories mourn his fearful doom; 

Hamilton lives where praises never cease, 

Crowned with the laurels of the arts of Peace. 

" Contentment." October, 1839, 

As through the sky, thy even ways thou takest, 
Lighted, but not impeded by the stars, 

* When the great minister of France, Prince Talleyrand, took 
leave of Hamilton at his residence, " The Grange/' Hamilton took 
from his mantel his miniature, and presented it to the Prince as 
his parting gift. This he so highly prized, that he ever kept it 
suspended over the mantel of his hall in his palace in Paris. Burr 
called there, but at this warning, skulked away, abashed. 

poems. G3 

So may I, most sweet moon, my journey make 

'Mid men, whose wondrous deeds shall shine afar. 

Unheeded and unenvied, may my days 

Be on the bosom of contentment borne ; 

Not free from care, for then my " Maker's " ways 

Might be forgot, and I indeed forlorn. 

But as the lark doth usher in the day, 

With thankful carols urging on mankind, 

So might I know the true poetic lay 

That cheereth on, and leaveth care behind: 

Then would I deem that I was truly blest, 

Then might I say, contentment I possessed. 


To Grief. 

Is there no haven from thy sea, oh grief ? 

Boundless and ceaseless as old ocean's roar 

Are thy assaults ? Is there no shore 

Whereon my bark may lie and find relief 

From thy fierce storms ? Oh ! beams there not above 

Some Pilot Star whereon the eye in Faith 

Fixed firmly, as voice within now saith, 

May see a parent, find forbearing love ? 

Oh ? thou Great Being — let Thy saving grace 

Heal the deep wounds my anguished bosom wears, 

And give me strength Thy gracious will to bear. 

Teach me, O Lord, that I a worthy face 

Present — that thus those seem so hard to me 

May be accepted as kind gifts from Thee. 

64 POEMS. 


Lady, I know not which the most to praise, 
Thy gentle manners and thy winning ways, 
Or the bright jewels which adorn the scene, 
"Where, with a mother's love, thou reignest supreme. 

Rome's noble matron to Campania's dame, 
Asking her jewels bright, felt pride, not shame, 
To say she owned no baubles, rich and rare, 
But that her sons were the sole gems she'd wear. 

So may'st thou to the brow of beauty turn, 
That brow, where deep-read sages yet may learn, 
Or on the damask cheek where blooms the rose 
"Which fadeth only, when with jest it glows. * 

As on the face, seraphic of thy child, 

Which doth in innocence long hours beguile, 

That lovely prattler, in her face we see 

What most we've learnt to love, dear Aunt, in thee. 

All I have felt, and feel, I may not tell; 
'Tis not the sparkling stream, you know full well, 
Hideth the rarest gems, tho' oft I slothful seem, 
Dear Aunt, for thee, do my heart's jewels gleam. 


From thy sweet blossom doth the buzzing bee 
Draw purest of its much-loved honied juice, 

The autumn air is fragrant made by thee; 
The yeoman revels in thy promised use. 

POEMS. 65 

Earth in her waning years now blooms again 
In the pure beauty of her spring-time days. 

Te vestal flowers, from your verdant fanes 
Win from departing warblers new-born lays. 

Ye now call forth more music from the mill, 
Its wonted song else hush'd, as o'er the rocks 

Returned to nature's ways, the sparkling rill 
Sweet measure marks for the gamboling flocks. 

Nor doth thy usefulness here cease; to thee 
The cheek of beauty owes its rosy hue, 

The arm of youth less powerful would be; 

That all things have their use, thou teachest is true. 


On hearing of her approaching nuptials, induced to wed against 
her will. 

Stay, stay these horrid nuptials; 

Unholy rites are these; 
Only where heart to heart is joined, 

Does wedlock Heaven please. 

Oh ! lady, thou art sad and pale ! 

Fear harbors not with love, 
Think you, if now thy heart doth quail, 

Thy future '11 joyous prove V 

No, no, trust not that cheating hope, 

Look on thy heart and see, 
If other image dearer still, 

Is cherished not by thee. 

66 POEMS. 

Oh ! lady, life tliou knowest not yet, 

Tho' sorrow thou hast known; 
For where's the bird, whose wings unwet, 

O'er whom no cloud hath flown ? 

Many an hour shall take its hue 
From that in which thou'rt wed ; 

Oh, better than these heartless rites 
Be with the early dead. 

As thou shalt take thy earthly lord, 

So shall thy journey be, 
On love's wings, soaring far and wide, 

Serene be land and sea. 

On storm-cloud borne, but ills and strife 

Shall mark thy darkened way, 
"lis but a gleam now lights thy life: 

One gleam, ere darksome day. 

Wealth, vain and glittering wealth, 

Pomp and its heartless suite 
May shine, may fawn, and win thy eye; 

Can it thy heart's need meet ? 

Much is there now to gild the scene, 
Words kind, smiles sweet, hopes bright, 

But change's finger 11 touch, I ween, 
The fairest earthly sight. 

Words kind, diamonds 'midst sands shall shine, 

Smiles sweet, as rays shall be, 
To miners who've for ages delved 

Far underneath the sea. 

POEMS. 67 

Hopes bright thou'lt chase, but chase in vain, 

As phantom barks they'll be; 
Nought but phosphoric lights they'll shine 

About thy gloomy sea. 

Stay, stay these horrid nuptials, 

There's one who loves thee well, 
And who, I know, dwells in thy heart, 

Let this thought break the spell. 

For spell it is, full well I know, 

Thy fancy is too bright, 
To robe that dark-eyed man as once 

Thou saidst, thy love was dight. 

Then stay these horrid nuptials, 

Thou must not wed to-night, 
'Twere better bear his bitter curse, 

Than live to loathe his sight. 

Stay, stay these horrid nuptials, 

They may not, must not be; 
No, no, I'd rather hear that bell 

Sound its last knell for thee. 

Then would sweet flowers deck thy grave, 

The rosemary there would bloom, 
And friends would mourn a spirit blest, 

When weeping o'er thy tomb. 

Not sigh for hours, in grief spun out, 

E'en to a sightless thread, 
But cheered, that thou to " home" hadst flown, 

Home of the happy dead. 

68 POEMS. 


Augusta Gibbes, 1841. 

Too weak are words thy worth to tell, 
Thy wondrous arts to please. 

Oh ! nothing e'er can break the spell 
Or cause these throbs to cease. 

Lovely Euterpe, with thy lyre 
Thou'st kindled into flame 

"What was till then a smouldering fire, 
A sense without a name. 

'Twas rapture sweet — a fond desire, 

To linger about thee; 
Oh, with the art, my soul inspire, 

Can make you think of me. 


Why wilt thou be more cruel than the moon, 
So long thy charms concealing from my view, 

'Tis but one night since she on earth did shine, 
While weeks have flown since I gazed on you. 

Is it that brighter after storms, the scene 

That thus from view, thy beauties thou dost veil ? 

Oh, pity thy poor slave, angelic queen, 
Lest his weak sight before thy brightness fail. 

Like wearied mariner on storm-tossed sea, 
I've stretched in vain my longing gaze, 

I know no star in all the world but thee 

Can guide me safely on life-chequer'd ways. 

POEMS. 69 

Tis said, with love thou dost regard mankind, 
I ask not that on me thou thus wilt look; 

All that I beg is, I a smile may find 

To soothe a heart, long absence cannot brook. 


October, 1840. 

Ah ! should we meet, ten cycles hence, 
How many the tale well have to tell, 

Of parted joys, of blasted hopes, 

Metliinks such meeting were not well. 

Yes, yes, we'll meet, and gazing here 

Upon the unchanged scene, 
Learn what old Time has done for us 

While we have wanderers been. 

If parted we are doomed to rove, 

The flowers of lif e be thine ; 
If thorns shall strew my path, may Heaven 

On your blest spirit shine. 


'Tis the laugh of the mountain, 

The song of the vale, 
The life of the fountain, 

It sweetens the gale. 

It cheers the bold hi igand 
To high, daring deeds; 

70 poem?. 

It alone cools his thirst 
When wounded, he bleeds. 

Tis the harp for love's story 

"When told to the maid, 
His life and his glory 

In the valley's green shade. 

'Tis the wood's infant murmur, 
When the warring storm's gone, 

E'er to sweet shades of summer 
Feathered warblers have flown. 

'Tis the type of man's life, 

In purity born, 
Hastening on in wild strife 

Its bosom is torn. 

Till the valley is reached, 
Where with breath of rose 

'Mid. the music of heaven 
To ocean it flows. 

That ocean where mingle 

The sad and the gay; 
The sluggish, the sparkling, 

All take the same way; 

To where the bright sunbeam 

Shines out upon all, 
And they danc3 in His sight, 

Or shrink from His call. 

POE^IS. 71 


Erected by Gouverneur Morris, 1840. 

'Twas rightly clone, dear friend, 
Thy work proclaims thy praise, 

Louder than loudest terms could speak, 
Men are judged by their ways. 

Here, 'neath this simple dome, 

Lies she who best loved thee; 
It is the holiest, meetest tomb 

O'er a mother reared could be. 

While by her side, he lies, 

Thy Father, son of Fame, 
"Who in his country's heart will dwell 

While Freedom has a name. 

Long may you live to hear 

The heavenly anthems rise, 
And when in green old age you part, 

Soar on them to the skies. 



The sea hath had man's worship, and the sun, 
The moon which doth 'mid myriad beauties run 
Her even course, and the bright beaming stars 
Unchanged amid Nature's raging wars, 

72 POEMS. 

Have each in due turn, and most justly won 
Praise from admiring poets, old and young, 
In lute-like madrigals. 

But who hath sung 
Thy beauties, noble stream ? These woods have rung 
"With thy just praises, only nature wild 
Could sound them meetly — thou the rarest child 
Of this famed wilderness. Naught but the mind 
Thy loveliness can scan. Language would bind 
Into too narrow span all that it sees, 
Thy myriad tongues thy praise — no words could please. 


Faith. Octobeb, 1839. 

Like to the loveliest hour of the day, 

The early dawn, which chaseth night away, 

With all its darkling beauties, " Faith," art thou. 

The wounded spirit unto thee doth bow, 

As doth the fevered brain to sweet dawn's glow, 

After deep anguish; though we feel it flows, 

Like the pure spring, to which the galled hart flees, 

Bearing death's arrows, or sane as bracing breeze. 

Thou art the North Star of the world's wanderers, 

The sweet moon worshipped by the longing lover 

Who thinketh on her not as of earth's dreams, 

But as the mirror where loved image beams. 

Blest are all those who when Life's labor's o'er, 

In faith have known what Heaven hath in store. 

POEMS. 73 


To the Oak. October, 1839. 

The year is in the seer and yellow leaf, 

Now winter's whistlers coursing through the air, 

The spring's sweet warblers wont the heart to cheer 

From verdant boughs of joyous homes bereave. 

Thus spring on spring, winter's chill footsteps chase, 

Thus leaf on leaf, the fail demands of thee 

Oh, dauntless oak. 

Give me thy heart, oh tree ! 
That I may be the marvel of my race, 
Never borne down by blasts or mighty gales, 
But nourished by adversity and strife 
In mighty deeds, that other mortals pale, 
Each season of my days may be more rife. 
Thus do I worship thee, thou brave old oak, 
That I may learn, like thee, to bear Time's yoke. 



As on a star, the gentle boy 

In mute astonishment doth gaze, 
Unequal in that hour of joy, 

The beauties of the sky to praise ; 
So, lady, on thy lovely face 

In silent wonder gaze I, e'er 
Too weak to read the matchless grace, 

Soul of such lineaments doth wear. 

74 POEMS. 


Octobee, 1842. 

They say like life is young Love's dream, 
Now sunshine and now storm, 

That shades will flit o'er brightest scene, 
That man's to sadness born. 

Oh, dearest, let us prove through life 
That sorrow brings a balm, 

That fiercest gale which bears us on 
Is herald of the calm. 

In love as life, God sends the test, 

Shall try, if true we are 
Proved faithful, we shall sure be blest, 

Let this trust be our star. 

Apbil, 1843. 

Oh, tell me, love, I pray thee, 
"What care afflicts you now ? 

My once loved voice shall cheer thee, 
And chase it from thy brow. 

Upon the fragrant myrtle 

The owlets never rest, 
But 'mid its boughs the turtle 

E'er builds her downy nest. 

The golden cloud o'erhangs thee, 
Drops not a single tear, 

POEMS. 75 

Thy beauty doth upbraid thee 
That you this frown wilt wear. 

But where's the bird whose wing's unwet, 

O'er whom no cloud hath flown ? 
One smile, dear love, and I'll forget 

Thy brow this shade hath known. 


Fairest and best of the daughters of earth, 
Whose smile has for me than Peri more worth — 
Thou who dost shine as the stars do in Heaven, 
Gilding the shades that steal o'er her at even. 


He long had loved her dearly, 
Yet never dared to woo ; 

Her smile he thought betoken'd 
" This lip is not for you." 

He loved her as the infant loves 
The starry hosts on high ; 

But in his wonder never dared 
To breathe for her a sigh. 

Their voices mingled oft in song— 
Their hands had often met ; 

Yet still he never dared to speak, 
Lest she'd say, " Go, forget ! " 

76 POEMS. 

A rose she wore upon her breast, 
She placed on his, one eve — 

He told his love, her hand she gave ; 
That gift did never grieve. 


As the pure moon on misty eve doth shine 

With veiled loveliness, so glows the light 
Of a chaste soul, through that dark eye of thine. 

Though I love day, I better love such night. 
As on thy face, a heaven of beauty, 

Through which the graces of thy spirit shine, 
I gaze in wonderment, I kneel in duty 

Bound, and worship at the glorious outer shrine- 
Too deep, too pure — the inner such as I 

Should bow to ; for, oh ! too much light 
"Would blind my grovelling sight, and with a sigh 

I'd turn, by self rebuked, to endless night. 
Oh ! may I kneeling, at the outer shrine, 

Hope that the inner's office may be mine. 


Nay, why so downcast ? Must thy radiant eye 

And laughing lip of rose's tint be fixed 

As thus you listless gaze on vacancy ? 

Oh ! for one smile, away the shade to chase 

Traced on thy face of beauty. Friends must part, 

E'en death may mark the bounds — then wherefore weep — 

The barb, we know, sank deep in thy fond heart, 

But 'tis Love's part to hold in its own depths 

POEMS. 77 

The swelling waters. Then let smiles once more 
Light on those left — the true, the tried, the fond — 
Who rise bright beacons on Life's ragged shore, 
Shall in all trials prove the stoutest bonds, 
In hours of joy, thy joys the brighter make, 
In hours of grief, from grief its sting shall take. 


Away, oh, care ! why wilt thou haunt him thus ? 
He has not wronged thee, or in thought or deed. 
Thou canst not say he warred against Man's peace ; 
This fierce assault 'gainst his, I pray thee cease — 
Has he been cruel or unkind to thine? 
Has he not raised the fallen from the earth ? 
Has he not shared his trifle with the poor, 
Or 'gainst the hungry has he closed his door ? 
Has he not borne the taunts and scoffs of men ? 
Has he not suffered from sharp tooth of want? 
Has he been loved by her who was his pride ? 
That thus thou'st sworn, for aye, to be his bride ; 
Or is it, that thou fondly lovest him so, 
With his life's course thou ceaselessly wilt flow ? 

TO E. S. N. 

I know not whereto I should liken thee, 
For thou, of all things, f airest art to me. 
Thy beauties, as the moon's creation fills, 
My world of thought with faker yet instils; 

78 POEMS. 

The stars are fleeting, ever changing hosts. 

No fleeting charms, my dearest, dost thou boast; 

Earth's flowers, sweet with perfume fill the air; 

Yet is thy breath a myriad times more rare. 

The air with countless melodies abounds, 

And yet with naught like thy sweet voice resounds. 

The sparkling waves the brightest gems do wear, 

And yet are dim to the bright orbs you bear. 

Oh ! thou art to me, as to earth, the sun, 

Causing all griefs my joyous heart to shun. 


We are born; we laugh, we weep, 
We live, love, hate, then die ; 

'Tis the song of all ! Wherefore so ? 
Who can tell ? Alas, not I ! 


Turn, erring mortal, to thy Lord, 
Thy Maker, and thy Master's will; 

Study and ponder well His Word, 
Thou'lt find the place thou hast to fill. 


At the Village Church, 1840. 

Here saw I thee in bloom of youth, 
In flush of beauty and of pride; 

Here heard I first the Word of Truth; 
Here gazed I on my bride. 


Here have we e'er from } r ear to year 
Our Sa"bbaths passed together; 

Nor have we ever w r anted cheer, 
Though stormy was life's weather. 

When sad, I've seen thy cheerful smile, 

Thy merry voice e'er heard, 
And they my gloomiest hours beguiled, 

As his mate's song, the bird, 

Yes, ever when I've bowed beneath 

The heavy blow T s of care, 
You taught me that our God bequeathes 

The lot 'tis best to bear. 


TO E. S. N. 

Lady, take thou this token, 
From one who fain would tell, 

Ere his poor heart be broken, 
The pains it knows too well. 

Thy smile could chase this gloom 
0'ershadow T s now my brow, 

And with the now'rets' bloom, 
Cause this pale cheek to glow. 

TO E. S. N. 

As I dreamt in my boyhood of beauty, 
To my fancy so bright shone each charm, 

That I believed it to be my first duty 

Ne'er to ]ove, lest the trait'ress might harm. 



But alas, though with sentinel care 

I watched my poor heart, it would love. 

I can guard it no longer — oh, share 

In my joy, and my own "true love" prove. 


Why mov'st thou so majestically proud, 
Robed in the panoply of night, oh cloud ? 
Like a fam'd monarch to earth's gifts most bright, 
Thy beauties owing, lovely in thy might. 

A royal diadem of myriad stars 
Rests on thy beaming brow in nature's wars, 
Most stern, yet still most beautiful art thou; 
Though evanescent as yon glorious bow. 

Art thou thus e'er in purple deck'd, laced 
With golden light, never with dark robes graced ? 
Dost thou demand the heart shall but adore; 
Comest thou ne'er to fill the mind with awe ? 

Shall not the deep-drawn tears with which thou greetest 
The parched earth, nursing its flowery sw r eets, 
Soften man's heart, while thro' life's varied vale, 
Down time's swift troubled stream he onward sails? 

'Tis not unmoved. Thy voice is thunder, 
Opposed with hghtning-flash, asunder 
All is rent, when on thy beauteous course, 
Thou'rt borne, on winds resistless horsed. 

POEMS. 81 

While 011 thy beauties lingering I 'look, 
Thought will take wings, and jealous cannot brook 
That fleeting vapors should obey His will, 
While I, His image, am rebellious still. 

TO E. 

Love thee ? Do I love the stars, 

Those winged handmaids of the moon, 

Whose sweeping train they bear afar 
Their seeming labor, dearest boon. 

Love thee ? Do I love the sky 

Eobed in cerulean blue, 
Upon whose bosom gleams on high 

The sun with golden hue. 

Love thee ? Do I love the world? 

No; therefore, dearest, I love thee; 
As Heaven makes this fair earth dull, 

So others all thou mak'st to me. 

Then ask me not if thou art dear, 
How else couldst thou e'er be ? 

All things of earth, the good, the fair, 
Bid me, love, think of thee. 

The roseate dawn, the noontide gale, 
The silver lakes, the sparkling stream, 

The lofty mount, the verdant vale 
"With but thy beauties ever gleam. 

82 POEMS. 

Oh, say, must I count all as vain ? 

Tlioss hopes prove fleeting dreams ? 
No, thou art true as yonder fane, 

The court where life's ray beams. 

"ST. PAUL'S." 
October, 18 — . 

Methought I stood within that ancient fane, 

Where in my infancy I had learn' d to name 

The name of God : where a sweet babe I saw, 

Timing his steps, with his, who totter'd on 

In second childishness, companion dearest 

Of that gray-haired man, once sage-like 

In his intellect. 'Tw s beautiful, to see 

How they did tend each other, the dying oak 

Sheltering the delicate flower, which with fragrance sweet 

In turn nursed it The time-wearied lion, 

Making his lair couch for the innocent lamb. 

He was a reverend, just, and upright man, . 

And when " Old Age " did bear him to his grave, 

" Goodness and he filled up one monument." 

Those days were numbered by the spring flowers' bloom. 

Memory still wandering back, I hear the voice 

Of her, who in her spring sank into lifeless earth, 

A flow'ret nipped, when in full fragrance, 

By thy ruthless blast, consumption. She was the partner 

Of a good man's age, the jewel of his soul, the sun 

That kept the currents warm which flowed 

Time-chilled athrough his veins. 

Here had I heard 
The funeral dirge, swelling with solemn cadence 
On the ear ; here had I seen dust unto dust 



Returned, and wept aloud over loved parent's bier ; 

What wonder, if sad thoughts should then arise, 

Though on me they were smiling from the sides. 

Soon like the brooklet which from mount doth run, 

My memory's melancholy strain was changed 

To song harmonious, for I saw the sun 

Struggling to free him from the misty bonds 

Which the chill morn had round him hung, 

And through the vaulted dome the dawn's soft light 

Murkily steal, and round the chancel kneeling, 

Fair woman and strong man, young babes, 

And infants innocent, one nestled close, 

Even at the altar's base, and smiling in its mother's face, 

Seemed to say : This is my proper resting-place. 

'Twas a sweet thing to see, how fearless 'mid the crowd 

That babe could be, smiling with cherub's glee. 

A bride and bridegroom at the altar knelt, 

And to the bishop's solemn utterance gave 

Heartfelt response : then all united in an earnest prayer 

That they might fitly wear their promises. 

They both were young, each after their nature beautiful ; 

The rosy morn, ushering in young day, 

A gentle dovelet, taking the same way. 

October, 1841. 

Poets have sung the praises of sweet streams, 
Their lucid waters and o'ershadowing groves ; 
Rich flowery banks where the fond lover roves, 
When on their bosoms slumber Luna's beams, 

84 POEMS. 

Lisping dear names, harmonious with their song, 

Ceaseless, yet varying with fair nature's call ; 

Yet none have given to the ear the fall 

Of waters, singing on their way, the throng 

Of changeful beauties, the rapt sense arrest ; 

The heavenly harmonies, the pure mind fills, 

"When with your touch, you sound the tinkling rill- 

The sweetest music ever heard conf est, 

Slow stealing o'er smooth rocks, lading the air 

With soul-subduing strains, alas ! too rare. 


So young ! so fair ! so sweetly sad ! 

Thy way of life 'twere strange to tell. 
These of thy days should be most glad, 

And yet this sorrow may be well. 
Tell me thy tale, I ween of love, 

Of earliest hopes crushed in their bloom, 
Of shadows cast o'er thy bright dreams, 

'Tis thus, fair daughter, to the tomb ! 


What sound is that I hear on high, 
Speeding its way athrough the sky ? 
'Tis the thunder's bolt, roaring aloud, 
Bounding on in the fiery cloud. 
Who hath made that bolt so strong, 
With the lightning fierce which urges it on ? 
He, who made thee, poor mortal man, 
He hath made this, and a louder can. 

POEMS. 85 

Beware in what course you hurry on, 
Soon will your earthly days be gone ; 
He who hath made the thunder loud, 
He also made the lowering cloud ; 
He, who hath made the form of life, 
Stirreth up the elements' strife ; 
He who hath made all nature fair, 
He alone need not death — beware. 

TO E. S. N. 

Lady, let not fancy roam, 

In those dark and gloomy lands, 

Where like vapors from the tomb, 

Sorrow round thee wieathes her bands. 

Once thy brow was cloudless, lady, 
And thy smile was sweet and gay, 

Brightly beamed thy eye like fairies, 
Joyous as a spring-time's day. 

Cheer, sweet mourner, let not grief, 

Like the canker in the bud, 
Make thy spring of life so brief, 

Drown thy young heart in its flood. 


How blest is he for whom the sigh 
Of gentle woman oft is breathed ; 

Around whose irna<?e every thought 
Forever is most fondly wreathed. 

86 POEMS. 

For whom affection's tear cloth How, 
Or brightest smile doth sweetly beam, 

And in the hour of joy or woe 
To her the spirit of her dream. 

And yet how sad it is that she 
So fondly prizes, oft's deceived, 

That from the hand should bid it flee, 
The blow most wounds is oft received. 


Why should I not be as the graceful deer, 
Heedless of time, exempt from every care ? 
Light as the air, which bears aloft the cloud, 
Pure as the stream, of its reflection proud ; 
My song as free as is the morning airs, 
Singing 'mid tree-tops, where the bird but dares 
To soar? As clear, as steady, and as bright, 
My way through life as gorgeous stars of night, 
Chasing away, with beaming smiles, the gloom 
"Which haunts each child of sin unto the tomb. 
UntrammelTd as the winds, my way shall be 
Not man dependent. Such are never free. 
No, let me live in nature like to thee, 
Thou pearly element — no fear to flee. 



A lady fair from her lattice light, 

Gazed on the silver sea 
Where the moonbeams played when earth was dight 

In its midnight panoply. 

POEMS. 87 

While thus she stood, the sound was heard, 

Of a minstrel sweetly playing 
His harp seem'd striving to clothe in words 

"jyhat her spirit to heaven was saying. 

To sadness soon he changed his strain, 
One sigh by her was given, 

He never touched that chord again, 
Their spirits met in heaven. 


(Poems of Rogers, Campbell, Montgomery, Lamb, and Kirk 
White) presented to a friend. 

Floweks sweet and fair will early fade and fall; 
Fondest pleasures on the light heart pall; 
From these pure pages then to thee shall spring 
Enduring comforts. Each doth in turn bring 
Chaplets meet for the gallant warrior's brow. 
Each teaches whence ne'er-fading glories flow. 
Of " Memory," one the fond remembrance tells; 
On sweets of " Hope," the other sweetly dwells. 
In heaven-born anthems " He of Zion " sings. 
And to the scene, Lamb fairest flow'rets brings; 
While thus the glittering galaxy doth close, 
With verse, we feel from gentlest nature flows. 
Here ever may the craving spirit find 
The purest truths have flow'd from mortal mind. 

88 POEMS. 


In Chapel, 1840. 

Happy is he whose faultless hand can trace 

The graceful form, the much-endeared face; 

Thrice happy he, and oh, how honored too, 

Whose works so nobly teach as thine here do. 

The soldier's road to proudest glory lies 

In warring ever to his Maker's praise; 

That bloodless may religion's fight be fought, 

Though fierce the strife, they'll win the prize that's sought. 

"War's " banner, furled, lies beneath his feet; 

No clang of arms, no peal the ear doth greet, 

But hopeful, smiling "peace," with laurel wreath, 

Points to the realm whose warriors know not death; 

Much to thy honor, Weir, this gift redounds : 

Rich in itself, richer for truths here found. 


By Weib, 1840. 

Ye youthful sons of war, whose steadfast gaze 

Is fixed on glory's star — here learn the way 

To highest honors ye can ever wear; 

Fadeless as eternity, ye will rear 

Proud monuments, if so ye shall but live 

True warriors. Your highest ambition give, 

Not to the conflict on the battle-field. 

" Peace " calls on ye a bloodless sword to wield 

In her high cause; a host Religion leads; 

Join ye her ranks — true glory's in her deeds; 

POEMS. 89 

Promotion's sure beneath her banner, 
Preferment to the highest posts of honor, 
Where peace and love, contentment e'er shall be, 
Are her rewards. This Weir is taught by thee. 


Oh, tell me, must this hour of joy 
Be linked with hours of gloom; 

One gold, the rest all steelen rings; 
The chain shall be my doom ? 

From on thy breast a jewel rare 
Gleams on my wondering sight; 

Oh, might I wear that jewel rich, 
Life's links would all be bright. 

Oh, shine thou like that diamond pure, 
Hanging on my life's chain, 

And thou wilt gild its steelen links, 
And I not love in vain. 


Oh, what's the art you use to make 
The hours so swiftly fly, 

And as they pass their hue to take 
From yonder happy sky ? 

90 POEMS. 

Oh, whence the smile that lights thy face; 

Those brightly beaming eyes, 
Whose glances every care efface, 

And bid " away " to sighs ? 

Is it that time and thou art one, 
Knowing nor change nor age, 

How swift soe'er ye onward run, 
Owning but one bright stage ? 

As " he," you know doth never change, 

So finds he f air in thee, 
A gleeful spirit lights the range 

He takes o'er land and sea. 

Oh, if with him I long should sail, 

Over life's varied sea, 
I never would its storms bewail, 

Heard I your joyous glee. 


Tou should love flowers, for flowers love you, 
They bloom in thy hand as fair as they grew. 
Thy lily-white hand, so like gem of the vale, 
It wooeth my heart to tell its love-tale. 

The myrtle that blooms with perfume so sweet, 
Wherever thou movest my rapt senses greet, 

POEMS. 91 

The orange-bud too, so sweet and so fair, 
Recalls unto me thy virtues most rare. 

The rose from thy cheek has borrowed its hue, 
Its fragrance, the breath it has stolen from you. 
Oh, say, may I hope they shine thus for me; 
Or would I be a blight to the sweets' bloom for thee ? 


Sin's clouds were lowering all around, 

No peace, no comfort e'er was found, 

Until, sweet dove, thou earnest to me, 

And taught me my neglects to see. 

Oh, hover ever round me now; 

Lead to the streams whence life doth flow; 

Grant that, there laving I may glow 

"With light serene and others show 

The gorgeous way which leads to life, 

The way with peace forever rife; 

Oh, finish this good work so well begun, 

And leave me not, back to sin's way to run, 

Then shall our spirits meet in regions blest, 

By my prov'd worth, my debt to thee conf est. 


Bright star of my soul, to thee I sing, 
Trophies, rare trophies, my queen, I bring; 
Honors and glory and love are thine, 
Oh ! on my wondering spirit shine. 

92 POEMS. 

Sorrow and sin, henceforth shall flee, 
No more my heart shall weary be, 
"With song and with mirth I'll fill the air, 
If thou iny home wilt but deign to cheer. 

Purity veils from all gaze profane 

The " Spirit of Truth " which peerless reigns; 

Flowers 111 bring to deck the brow 

A chaplet of glory enriches now. 

Grace in thy form, life in thy laugh, 

Oh, let me ever this goblet quaff; 

Earth with its beauties made heaven by thee, 

Before thy rare smiles all shadows shall flee. 

TO E. 

If I, at distance, must gaze on the star, 
Gleams as of old, to Chaldean afar, 
Silent in worship, on low-bended knee, 
Soothed in thy service my spirit will be. 

Then on my worship pray do not frown, 

If other shall wear the proud victor's crown; 

I will fealty swear to him in thy train, 

May thee I but serve, glad e'en in my chains. 

Glory and honor and praises I've known, 
Trophies for good done, proudly have worn; 
Dangers have dared by fell and by field, 
Yet never quailed, but now humbly yield. 

POEMS. 93 

The glance which has conquered, 
Leading on battle's hosts, has lowered 
'Neath thine, while my face paled and blushed, 
In fear lest by thee my heart's prayer should be 

For daring to worship, thou star of my soul, 
Sweet saint, then in charity, since all control 
To him thou hast conquered o'er his spirit is lost; 
Forgive if he yields to thy charms countless hosts 


Eejoice, the day hath come, 

To man, a Saviour's given, 
Let your glad voices anthems raise; 

Be joy in earth as heaven. 

Now want doth lose its sting, 

Care's wrinkled brow is smoothed, 

The poor, the rich, the grave, the gay, 
Are all alike beloved. 

All are the heirs of life, 

Let all then sing His praise; 
The sweetest comes from hearts are true, 

And steadfast in His ways. 

Sorrows shall vanish at the thought 

That joy eternal's given; 
The universe one choir shall praise 

The Lord of earth and heaven. 




Love is a tyrant, whose despotic sway 

None e'er may share; 
Reason to fancy must its rule resign, 

Many its care. 

Imagination is its direst foe, 

Tet firmest friend; 
From it the greatest beauties ever flow, 

Like breath to end. 

Jealous by nature, ever on the watch, 

With childish freaks; 
Itself in eager haste, it oft doth catch, 

Till reason speaks. 

Then creaks the bark of glowing fancy, 

The dream is o'er; 
Reason once more hath seized the nervous helm, 

Love's bark's ashore. 


When we look back and think of all the days 
That we have passed in vain and useless ways, 
We ask ourselves if we have pleased God, 
If we have obey'd His ever righteous word. 
Conscience doth loudly tell us we have erred, 
That we from the true path of life have swerved, 
That we, most guilty creatures, live to roam 
Through the wide world, without or friend or home. 



For though, 'gainst storms our roofs may shelter be, 

Yet are they ill-secured, when we of Thee 

So little think, and much less, Lord, obey, 

When we in darkness live, altho' the ray 

Of Life eternal shines upon the way, 

That we should walk, as bright as sun-lit day. 


September 9, 1847. 

Welcome to earth, sweet infant, may thy way 
Be so far golden that thou may'st not stray 
From the straight road leads to eternal life. 
May every day, aye, every hour be most rife 
In fadeless joys, such as to thee shall last, 
When the short summer of thy life is past, 
And cheer thy age's winter with bright flame 
Of generous deeds, fond friends delight to name; 
So that when time and tide shall be no more, 
Thou'lt rest secure upon that peaceful shore, 
Fertile in richest harvests to all those 
Whose bosoms with celestial spirit glow, 
Chosen attendants on His high commands, 
Who calls to honors in His happy lands. 


July, 1862. 

Hark to the clarion's blast ! 

Hark to the fife and drum ! 
Hark to the cannon's boom ! 

As fierce and fast they come ! 

96 POEMS. 

Lie low, till the roar is o'er, 

Ere smoke is curled away; 
Fill the field with a sea of gore, 

Check the foe with death's array. 

Level your muskets in serried row, 
A solid, fearless front now form; 

Eider and horse 'neath your fierce fire's glow 
Shall quickly meet the traitor's doom. 

Hark, cannons roar, shells fierce shriek ! 

Our bullets sharp, shrill whistle, 
Their dying groans, our death-work speak 

"While Porter's rifles glisten. 

Mansfield has fallen — Hooker too, 
But he shall lead in martial array, 

In many a fight, with victor's blow. 
McClellan has saved this bloodiest day. 

Wherefore is this ? We brothers all — 
Fighting for what ? A phantom dream, 

A fancied wrong? Is this honor's call? 
No, no, 'tis life to the slave now gleamSl 

Freedom for all, no matter their hue, 
Our God in Heaven has willed to all. 

Sons of the South, yield to the Blue, 
Which never before the gray shall fall. 

Cheer for the Stars, cheer for the Stripes, 
Cheer for the gallant boys in Blue, 

Antietam's blow slavery dooms. 

God stands firm, by the just, the true. 

poems. 97 

May, 1863. 

Silent and sullen the scene, 

Silent and sullen the air; 
Sudden we start from our dream, 

Awakened by enemy's cheer. 

Unheeded, the warning was sent 

To him who commanded the corps, 
Wrapt in his confidence, rent 

Was his fame, the foe at his door. 

Our picket-guard hurried the word 
That Jackson was massing in wood: 

Would strike ere our lines could be formed, 
Not heeding, unmoved, Howard stood. 

Loud was the shout, fierce was the charge 
On our men by their camp-fire sitting, 

Our evening rations yet warm, 

Not warned of the enemy's greeting. 

: Rally, boys — rally, boys; form 
A hollow-square," our hope — 
Jackson's horse, in fierce charge come, 
And they make a fearful swoop. 

Again, again did we rally, 

Fierce as ocean the sea-shore laves, 
His cavalry from the woods sally, 

And our boys are swept to their graves. 

Those gallant sons of the North 
Who, following our " fighting Joe," 

98 POEMS. 

Drove from Antietam the South 
All gilded with victory's glow. 

The wearied and worn, all through the night 
Our wounded we succor — our dead we bury, 

Jackson has fallen, after winning the fight, 
Slain by his own in the turmoil's flurry. 

The Sabbath's dawn has broken, 

The battle is fiercely raging, 
Hooker has been wounded, fallen, 

Sickles the foe engaging, 

Calls for succor in vain, 

None then to take command 
And secure our Sickles' gain, 

Line after line disbands. 

Kilpatrick is doing his work, 

And Pleasanton charging on; 
But Stoneman and Averill lack, 

And our claimed victory's gone. 

Fast falls the rain, as fast the foes 
Each claiming the field as theirs, 

Till wearied and worn, each one goes 
To their lines 'mid groans, 'mid cheers. 

The dead and the dying, there lie close, 

Fire in the forest raging — 
Better that all had their lives then lost, 

Than wounded, die in the blazing. 

Neither a victor, both fall back 
To meet soon in battle array, 


Jackson no more, we now on the rack, 
Shall glory in Gettysburg day. 


The Northern heart was heavy, 
Yet firm in its trust that God, 

In His good time, after chastening, 
Would keep His promised word. 

The glorious Fourth at hand, 

Day by all nations hailed; 
"Whose hordes fly to our land, 

As before their tyrants they quailed. 

After Chancellorsville's losses, 
Our ranks are filled once more, 

Lee with his host is hastening North, 
To flood loyal fields with gore. 

July's glorious golden days 

Are gilding the fields with grain, 

Orchards with fruits are laden, 
All growing, alas in vain; 

For Freedom's calls are heard 

By every loyal son, 
And North and West are hurrying on, 

For Freedom must be won. 

The first day Reynolds drove 

Back the outnumbering foe, 
On the second morn the fight raged fierce, 

The scene was all a#low. 

100 POE^IS. 

The loyal North victorious, 

Driven the foe from the field, 
Again and again repulsed, 

For Ewell would not yield. 

Our Sickles, armed with faith, 

Charges this lion's den, 
Sweeps through, with vengeful wrath, 

Falls 'mid the myriads slain. 

From dawn of the third our Slocum 

Fearless stood — a wall of fire. 
"While Jackson's old corps, their masses hurled 

In fierce and quenchless ire. 

Our foe retired at noon, 

But ere two hours were spent, 
Longstreet, sublime in solid mass, 

Against us his corps sent. 

Till even raged the deadly strife, 
The foe from the field were driven. 

Victory crowned the Union cause 
Under the hand of Heaven. 

Oh, glorious Fourth ! hailed be this day 
While Gettysburg fight lights our land, 

Vicksburg's host, so long stood at bay, 
Falls beneath Grant's heavy hand. 

POEMS. 101 

TO E . 

November 15, 1842. 

Joy, joy be unto thee, my lovely bride, 

My life's best gift, a rosy dawn salutes thee, 

Earth, ocean, sky, glisten in glad delight — 

Henceforth lif e's ills before thy smile shall flee. 

When thus I call thee mine, all thine grow dear, 

Thy mother is a mother, too, to me-; 
Thy sisters fair a circlet round us form, 

Unto my bosom closer binding thee. 

There shalt thou find whatever may betide 
A resting-place secure as dovelets' nest, 

'Mid fiercest storms rock'd in the old oak's arms, 
An infant slumbering on a monarch's breast. 

Thanks from a heart o'erflowing rise to Him 
Who gives thee me — a holy trust — dear love, 

Oh ! may I e'er be found time to this trust. 
As worthy it, so worthy thee I'll prove. 


Whose home is yonder castle 

With its turrets high and proud ? 

There dwell no sons of battle, 
But the warriors of the cloud. 

'Tis a castle high and strong 
Of a race famed in story, 

Whose glory lasted long, 
But whose end was sad and gory. 

102 POEMS. 

Erd was a stern old chieftain, 
Long known far and near ; 

His call none ever heard in vain, 
Its sound to all was fear. 

He had an only daughter, 
Ethelda, fair and proud ; 

To foe he gave no quarter, 
No ear she to the crowd. 

Who woo'd her night and morning, 
"Who woo'd her many a year ; 

She bade them go — all scorning 
Who f ear'd " Cleft Rock " to dare. 

At last there came a chieftain 
From a far distant land ; 

He brav'd the rock — its terrors vain- 
Ethelda gave her hand. 

High in the air he rais'd it, 
With fire flashed his eye — 
" For whom is murderess meet 
Her race shall surely die." 

Unto that chief she knelt, 
Ethelda proud and vain ; 

Rather than lose this lord she felt 
She'd stoop to life of shame. 

Her father soon lay dead ; 

Her acts had slaughtered him. 
She laid in earth — that head 

To man had a terror been. 

POEMS. 103 

Ethelda liv'cl alone, 

Save when Caroclin came ; 
A lurid light e'er shone 

Around that house of shame. 

Till as her spirit pass'd away 

Far brighter burnt that flame ; 
Then all was quenched at close of day, 

Tho' not quench'd that maiden name. 

TO E. S. N. 

Dear Bessie, we have known each other 
Scarce more than half a season, 

Yet in it I have lived an age, 
Oh, tell me, what's the reason ? 

The days have flown on eagle's wings 

As blithe as linnet's song, 
And yet so full of joy was each 

It seemed a season long. 

The moon when passing o'er us, love, 

Alike gilds every scene ; 
So 'neath thy smiles shines every hour, 

And life's but one sweet dream. 

Oh, may we never live to find 

A shadow cross this view ; 
How loud soe'er Life's storms may rage, 

That moon I'll see in vou. 

104 POEMS. 


Beautiful cloud, whither away— 
Stay with me, I J3ray thee, stay ; 
Thy fleecy train of snowy white, 
With its dazzling stars adorn the night, 
Like thee our joys, in a gorgeous train, 
Deck the dark robes of grief and pain. 

TO E. S. H. 

Faikest and best of the daughters of earth, 
Whose smile has for me than Peri more worth ; 
Thou who dost shine as the bright stars of heaven, 
Gild thou my days till a golden even. 


Though fairy is thy form, ladie, 
Adorned by every grace, 

Tis not for this that I love thee, 
The fairest of thy race. 

Tis true thy lip is sweet, ladie, 

Thy smiling rosy lip 
As sweet as floweret where the bee 

In summer-time doth sip. 

*Tis not thy blooming cheek, ladie, 
Whose hue outvies the flower, 

Which now I feel inspires me 
In verse to own thy power. 

POEMS. 105 

Nor golden curls, waving, ladie, 

O'er orbs now dazzling bright. 
As moonlight clouds o'er stars, ladie, 

When peering forth at night. 

'Tis not thy silver voice, ladie, 

Like waters o'er rocks stealing, 
Gives to my flinty heart, ladie, 

This true and changeless feeling. 

But 'tis thy wit and worth, ladie, 

Flowerets of gentle birth, 
"Which blooming round the heart, ladie, 

Now win it back to earth. 


Oh, Father, grant me, e'er my days are past, 

That I may learn the ways of truth, of life, 
Not using years, as I have used my last, 

But that they may with most just deeds be rife ; 
If I have erred, my heart, I hope, was right. 

None have I willingly abused — no trust 
Confided, have I wronged — with all my might 

Hereafter will I labor, Lord, for Thee, but grant 
Earth offers not to me too strong allurements. 

Whatever is, is best, that let me learn, 
That here ail things are vain — preferments 

Follow fast and sure, those who ne'er turn 
From virtue ; for useless fame 

All else forget, never Thy holy name. 

106 POEMS. 


Auburn tresses ! sparkling eye ! 
Laughing lips, with their coral dye ; 
Snowy bosom and faultless form, 
Sylph-like step, as she floats along. 

" Who is this ? * did the Beauty cry, 

Glancing in mirror, passing it by. 
" Oh, foolish girl, beware the thought ; 

What ? Has he lisped ? Is thy heart caught ? " 

Her wooer came — she sang her song — 
Did that voice to siren belong ? 
Perfume of heaven filled the air — 
Seraph notes — so rich, so rare ! 

Gladsome and gleesome. Oh, that smile ! 
'Twould a saint from his beads beguile. 
Yes — he's vanquished, that golden hair, 
That laughing voice ! that face so fair ! 

The sceptre of genius is crested there, 
Her brow of beauty truth's impress bears, 
Yet pales before the rare wit that flows 
In her sparkling words, where wisdom glows. 

Was it, then, strange she woke from the lair 
That lion heart, which all danger dares ? 
One has come, whom he trembles before — 
Cupid has conquered, opened the door. 

The troop of beauties he marshalled in dreams, 
Have flooded his soul, when he strongest seems ; 

POEMS. 107 

He has met his fate — wilt thou hear his prayer ? 
Is thy heart whole ? Sweet maiden, ne'er fear. 

No snowflake falls from our dear Father's sky, 
But its pillow is spread, where 'twill safely lie ; 
The hand that mars the pure work of God 
Will never escape His avenging rod. 


She stands alone in queenly pride, 

Her bearing high as ever ; 
Fate, thou couldst raise her rock-bound throne, 

But her proud spirit, never. 

Around the fierce exulting crowd, 

Revelling in her great fall, 
Demand her life — a woman's life — 

Hers, who had lost her all. 

Her all — not so, in her proud heart 

That spirit burn'd as pure, 
As when she sat Palmyra's queen, 

Far from the Roman's shore. 

She was the consort of a king, 

Partner of the Roman's throne, 
Despising servitude — he slain, 

She reigned, proud queen, alone. 

Rome's Emperor * in mercy bids 
His arm'd attendants cease ; 

* Emperor Aurelian married Zenobia's daughter. 

108 POEMS. 

Pardons her errors and her guilt, 
Points out the paths of peace. 

On Tiber's shore, her stately step 
And queenly voice is heard : 

A mimic court attends her will, 
Obeys each wish, each word. 

Oh, was it mercy thus to spare 
To mockery's cruel gibes, 

A heart which God had made to rule 
A thousand savage tribes ? 

Aye, more than mercy ; for in Rome 
That heart was tamed, was calm : 

She closed her days in virtuous deeds, 
Eobed in religion's charms. 

TO E. 

When he who adores thee 
Shall roam far away, 

Will he be to thee, Lissy, 
As dear as to-day ? 

May the smile of another 
In the hour of mirth, 

Not banish the lover 

Like shadow from earth ? 

Or will thy heart beat, 
Thy rosy cheek burn, 

Thy lips fail to meet, 
As you wait his return ? 

POEMS. 109 

Or open the seal 

Where his love story's writ, 
" Thine thro' woe or weal, 
Whate'er life has in it ? " 

Aye — we'll quaff of its cup 
While its waters shall last ; 

And when they're drank up, 
We'll sigh that they're past. 

For whate'er they may be, 
Or of pleasure or pain 5 

If they're shared but with thee, 
To me, 'tis the same. 


My home, it is by the churchyard side, 
The sharp ring of the spade I hear 

As it sounds o'er all from babe to bride, 

When they're borne from the mournful bier. 

Oft on my ear, at the midnight hour, 

The whisperings of spirits steal, 
Or like the balmy breath of flowers, 

Or the culprits at the wheel. 

First come the young babes, their lispings weak, 
Then deep sound the mournful mothers, 

Then on the ear strike the young bride's shrieks 
As she weeps the death of lover. 

And then, anon, there comes a low sound, 
Like the heaving of the billows, 

110 POEMS. 

As tho' many the heads beneath that ground, 
Laid not on easy pillows. 

As tho' spirits dread did haunt the tomb 
Of some who there they have laid, 

I strive to rest, I see but that gloom. 
Hear naught but that ringing spade. 

And then I think how blest are the young, 
Who have sank to peaceful slumbers ; 

For whate'er oar lot, our hearts are wrung, 
If many a year we number. 


Star of this darksome hour, 
Light of life's gloomy day, 

I own thy mighty power, 
Bow to that light's glad ray. 

Speak not of sorrow's reign, 
Smile tho' its shafts are sent. 

I truly know the pain, 

Sweet maid, thy heart hath rent. 

Oh, ye ! who kneel to " love," 
Beware its galling chain, 

Tho' it your souls may move, 
'Tis but a golden pain. 



July, 1858. 

Weep not — he needs no tears — 

They are for those of earth ; 
But sympathize with him 

Who mourns a "brother's worth. 

His was a spirit bright— 

Wander'd from yon high sphere 
To this vast world of night, 

Where none his joys might share. 


Who lost his life at Richmond, Ya., July. 1858, when a member of 
the Seventh Regiment, escorting President Monroe's remains 
to their last home. 

Weep not for Laurens ! he is dead — 

Dead to the world and all its bitter cares, 

Where he by Heaven's loving hand was led, 
Though weighty trials did assail him here. 

He lived above them, ever in their midst, 
As sea-bird, soaring o'er the racing waves 

In wildest storm, his wing unwet, most blest, 
For in God's care he found the love He gave ; 

Teaching that griefs were but as vestal flames, 
Chastened the spirit, making more meet 

When he was called to serve in Heaven's high fane, 
To wear the glory, there God's own si) all greet. 

112 POEMS. 

He was so loving — gentle, firm, yet kind — 

All hearts unconsciously lie ruled ; 
Now he is gone — in this our loss we find 

How blest were we by his pure teachings schooled. 

Then render adoration unto Him, 

Whose love a season short our darling lent 

To teach how golden are the griefs earth dims 
To those receive them in our Lord's intent. 


Oh, lovely night, shinest thou for me alone, 
Or to some kindred spirit art thou known ? 
Some spirit bright, a beacon from afar, 
As to the wave-tossed seaman, Polar star. 

So fix thy image on my wav'ring mind, 
That I in future festive hours may find 
All thy rich beauties — rich as now they gleam, 
That they may not be fleeting as a dream. 

High o'er my head, sweet Luna brightly glows, 
Serenely walking thro' yon realm which shows, 
Like azure train, on queenly shoulders borne, 
"With golden stars bespangled, tho' they're shorn, 

Of half their lustre, as by thee, my Star, 
All other beauties of this wide world are — 
So, fond one, live, that here thy course fulfill'd, 
There you may shine, as at thy birth was will'd. 

POEMS. 113 

TO E. 

You say, dear love, your nature's cold, 
When carelessly you greet me, 

Oh, rather would I you should scold, 
Than that you thus should meet me. 

Beware, beware, take early heed, 

For we but own this minute ; 
Life, you know, has a headlong speed, 

So drink the joy that's in it. 

Flowers which bloom when summer smiles, 
'Neath winter's breath will fall, 

So while my heart thy wit beguiles, 
Beneath thy frown it may pall. 

Oh, wear no more that careless look ; 

Give me no icy hand ; 
Thy frown, dear love, I cannot brook, 

Thy smile's a fairy's wand. 

Awakes to light, to love, to joy — 

A heaven makes of earth ; 
The weightiest chain becomes a toy — 

Oh, has thy smile no worth ? 


Who bends beneath thy blow ? 

Who bows the head to thee ? 
His should lie low, so low 

There could no refuse be. 

114 POEMS, 

Within the Holy Tome 

The words of truth are writ, 

That this is not man's home, 
Earth's fairest joys must flit. 

Flit as the taper's light, 
The perfume of the rose, 

The songster of the night, 
The cheek with beauty glows. 


O storm ! how fearful, yet how beautiful— 

The air all still — swift came a darksome cloud, 

And all was gloom. The silence of the tomb 

By its shrill voice was broken. Thunder dread 

Startling awoke the sleeping — lightning fierce, 

With its livid glare, rous'd dreaming nature. 

O storm ! thou wert a welcome visitant, 

Kindred unto me — my thoughts a portion 

And a part of thee, Thy fearfulness I love, 

For thou wert fashion'd by the hand of God — 

Now, through yon cloud gleams the moon's silver light. 

The storm is hush'd — the tempest's wrath appeas'd — 

And where it raged, beauty and peace now reign ; 

Thy glorious voice, O storm ! came not in vain. 


There's a charm in thee, thou dear old tree, 
With thy branches hoar and broad, 

Scene of my play for many a day 
Did thy cooling shades afford. 

POEM'. 115 

Now autumn's winds, thy leaves unbind 

And sing amid thy boughs, 
While sweet birds' throats, with warbling notes, 

Utter their heavenly vows. 

Though winter chill, with voice so shrill 

Shall bow thy graceful form, 
We'll love thee still, and the sparkling rill 

Shall nurse thee 'mid the storm. 

And if " old time " shall bear away 

Our childhood's dearest friend, 
We all will weep, when in dust you sleep, 

And sadly mourn thine end. 


Mothee, why must I die — 
Earth's lif e but just begun ? 

Oh, could I live but one short year 
How chang'd the course I'd run. 

Cool, cool my f ever'd brow ! 

A fire is at my heart ! 
Oh, Father ! Mercy, mercy now ! 

Let me in peace depart ! 

I have forgotten Thee, my God, 
But Thou wilt sure forgive. 

Grant that I may to learn Thy Word 
Only one season live. 

Ha ! they attack my brain ! 
Those searing flames burn still — 



Cool, cool my tongue — 'Tis vain — 
But, oh ! it is God's will. 

Peace, peace, my child, be calm, 
Thy pains will soon be o'er, 

Oh, Father, send to her the balm, 
A peaceful mind restores. 

A shriek ! a sigh ! a moan ! 

A gasp, all, all is o'er — 
She's dead, nor dies she thus alone, 

That mother is no more. 

Is this thy way, O life ? 

The echo of thy song ! 
The end of beauty, pride, and pomp, 

Oh ! who could love thee long ? 


Whence is the charm, with which thou win'st man's heart ? 
To beauty he true knight doth ever bow, 
But with thy converse hours and days do flow 

Fast as they even with his true love part. 
Is it His spirit, whom on earth you mourn 

Such sweet communion with his reft bride holds 

That like the babe, fond mother, thou enfold'st 
In thy chaste bosom his dear image borne ? 

Ever about thee, Heaven's rich charms instill, 
Celestial born, thy wondrous wit doth fall 
In numbers sweet, making all others pall, 

Sweet, aye, more sweet than notes the green woods fill 
May the bright spirit doth attend thee here, 
So live, that she her parents' crown may wear. 

POEMS. 117 

TO . 

Nay, why so downcast ? Awake, put on your arms, 

Go forth and war with foes oppose you now. 

You ne'er have bent to care, why will you bow, 
So long triumphant over all earth's harms ? 

Her gentle spirit calls to thee in love, 
She, the companion ever of the good ; 
List, 'tis her hand offers celestial food : 

Take it and feast, thus feast those dwell above. 
Kemember thou His cross hast taken up, 

The cross of Him who did but suffering breathe. 

So bear all cares, that thou may'st win the wreath 
Those wear who follow Him — 

Here may'st thou sup 

Of pleasures purer than are born of earth — 

Those pleasures, only of man's thoughts, are worth. 


He weds her, though he loves her not — 

A perjured man he stands, 
How could he ever have forgot 

Heaven claims hearts, not hands ? 

Tears number'd by that wronged bride 
Have passed — long, weary years — 

As gazing on her babes, her pride, 
In silence flow'd her tears. 

Another's heart to win her strove, 
But she's as chaste as fair — 

Like vulture over her has flown, 
He left not a shadow there. 

118 POEMS. 

His much wrong'd bride has pass'd from earth, 

His wealth has vanished too, 
His babes they died — at a lonely hearth 

His deeds shall this murd'rer rue. 


If I have been unkind to thee, 
You felt no pain so great as mine. 

He prizes most, whose toil 't must be 
To make the valued diamond shine. 

Oft aches my heart, my cheek grows wet 
"With tears in sorrow suffering born, 

Yet like this grief, who'd e'er forget 

The freshening cloud o'er sun hath flown. 

The gentlest bird e'er cheer'd thy heart, 
The softest breeze e'er kiss'd thy brow, 

Told thee that joys of earth would part 
Such ever smiling lover's vow. 

The constant song would cease to charm, 
The balmy breeze its fragrance lose ; 

The changeless tone no more would warm, 
He coldly loves, in smiles e'er wooes. 

TO E- 

She says she loves thee — so do I, — 
" Thou, to each and all art given," 

(Gayly sing earth, ocean, sky) 

" Dearest boon e'er came from Heaven ; 

POEMS. 119 

" Peace and plenty — joy — be hers, 
Placid as a summer's sea. 
When the breeze of even stirs, 
Naught from its sweet harmony ; 

" Be her days, her hours, minutes — 
Slumbers soft her eyelids close, 
Till at dawn the songs of linnets 
Wake her from her sweet repose. 

" Spirit from the courts of Heaven, 
Mirror of a spotless life, 
Essence to the dew-drop given, 
Free from sorrow, sin, or strife." 

Such art thou, fond, dearest Lissy, 

Polar star to me away, 
Ever shall this heart reflect thee, 

As the sea that guardian ray. 

Oh, be thou about me ever, 

Hover o'er me in my sleej), 
From thy " Own Home " wander never, 

O'er my acts strict vigils keep. 


Oh, can it be, that I who've wept thee ill, 
Mourn'd o'er thee as forever lost to me, 

Should e'en one moment of thy dear hours fill 
With saddest, weightiest melancholy. 

Forgive me, oh, forgive me — do I ask, 

Yet ask but to implore the boon once more. 

120 POEMS. 

Oh, it is but a thankless, endless task 

To pardon oft — as I do oft implore. 
With sad and heavy heart I think o'er days 

Given to us to be but scenes of mirth, 
Made by my wanton, wilful, heartless ways, 

Of melancholy thoughts the seeds, the birth. 
Awak'd as from a long and mournful dream 

That past, I see, cloth'd in a sombre hue — 
While far before thee, brightly shines a beam 

Fill'd with the promise of rich joys to you. 
That dark and gloomy past 's a golden land, 

Rich in its fruitful harvests unto both, 
Where we, dear love, are walking hand in hand 

In virtue's ways and lovely works of truth. 
I oft in sadness think, and thinking, weep 

So much of evil in my nature is, 
That I in grief may all thy dear hours steep, 

Those hours which should be but glad hours of bliss. 
I know not why, that in my latter days 

The moaning night-bird haunts me with his song. 
Once ever glad and joyous were my ways, 

Once sang for me the lark the whole day long. 
Oh, intercede for me at that High seat — 

Where all we ask as surely w T e shall find, 
That you hereafter may with sweet smiles greet 

Him who to this world you alone did bind. 


Where art thou, my beloved one ? 

Gone, gone for aye, from me ? 
May I no longer hear thy voice, 

Or matchless beauty see ? 

POEMS. 121 

No longer shall the clear blue sky 

Be dear and lov'd by me; 
The day is dark and gloomy now, 

For all is night I see. 

But highly do I prize the stars, 
Which loving look on thee ; 

And her whose image wears thy smile- 
Yon crescent shines on me. 


It comes from the north, 

In its raiment of ice; 
It comes from the south, 

In its garb beyond price. 

It comes from the east, 

And it comes from the west, 

It comes e'er the same; 

For 'tis " death's" at the best. 

Lo ! that charger of blood, 
'Tis death's warrior flies, 

To the slaughter of thousands; 
Hark, hark ye, the cries 

Of the mothers, the babes, 

The sires, the sons, 
As they fall 'neath his blow 

Where his blood course he runs. 

Lo, the shriek on the gale, 
The moan on the breeze, 

122 POE3I3. 

The curse on tlie tempest — 
Naught, naught can appease. 

For revengeful he rides, 

Like the storm o'er the billow, 

Spares nor maiden nor bride, 
Hark his hillo, his hillo ! 

Now, a whispering comes, 
'Tis a guilty heart's sorrow, 

He heeds not its call, 

It must wait till the morrow. 

Like the cry of the hounds 

When they rush on in madness, 

Death's yell deepest wounds 

Those who'd fly from their sadness. 

Then to shouts of glad tidings 

For victories o'er, 
Are chang'd the soul's wailing, 

Leaving earth's darksome shore. 


There's a spell in thy dark eye, fair one, 
A light in thy beaming smile; 

Flashes like wave where the golden sun 
In sport its last hours beguiles. 

There's a grace in every motion, 
A charm in every thought ; 

POEMS. 123 

But all ! who knows this heart's emotion, 
So dearly, so sadly bought ? 

Thou art flown with the storied past, 

Whose visions around me rise, 
Oh, give me one look, one look ere my last 

From those too well remember' d eyes. 


Feb. 6, 1887. 

Hush, hush, tread softly here, 

It is my babe here sleeps; 
Dry, dry that foolish tear, 

Who e'er for angel weeps ? 

Strew, strew those fragrant flowers 
O'er the snow-white garb earth wears, 

The handiwork of the virgin showers 
Which could not restrain their tears. 

liaise high your voice in praise, 

Till it ascends to Heaven; 
"Unite with her in joyful lays, 

In those high courts are given. 


I lov'd thee once, I lov'd thee well, 
Ah dearly bought, ah fatal spell, 
Courted you were, all gay and bright, 
But won, where is that lov'd eye's light ? 

124 POEMS. 

Whither has flown the joy joyful smile, 
The laugh so many hours beguil'd ; 
The winsome ways that won my heart, 
Those foes of man, fair maiden's arts ? 

All, all are gone, no light is there, 
Those orbs are dark, that raven hair, 
That smiling lip, that roseate cheek, 
That brow that seem'd almost to speak. 

Flown with the knell of all earth's joys, 
Time, cruel time, e'en love destroys, 
I thought thee one beyond his touch, 
But none escape, no, not e'en such. 




One long last kiss, my darling boys, 

For I must hasten far away 
And seek to win those gilded toys, 

The light and glory of this day. 

Yes, I must leave my darling babes 
And bravely breasting every storm, 

Toil with earth's ever restless slaves, 
And worship lucre's filthy form. 

Ah ! why is nature by our God enrobed 

In beauties brighter than in diamond gleams, 

Too weak to bind me, where each hour unfolds 
Glories f«ir mightier than the miser dreams. 

POEMS. 125 

Need bids me leave my native hills, 

My darling babes, a fond farewell. 
I seek your good. Heaven guard from ills; 

How fond my love, these tears best tell. 

Cling ye to her, your mother dear, 
Who bids me go with swelling heart, 

Tho' bright her eye, her brow so clear, 
While choosing thus the wiser part. 

By "Delilah's Avengek." 

I am a jolly Britisher. I came from Fatherland, 

To make a mighty fortune, I thought I'd turn my hand; 

I tried a little farming, but found it would not do, 

So I turned all may attention to "Cock-a-doodle-do." 

I set just twenty eggs, under a great big hen 

That I had shut up nicely, in a little lattice pen, 

But out of the whole twenty, I got but half all told, 

For the lazy, stupid hen left half out in the cold 

I tried a little painting, but the likeness was so true, 

You could not tell, to save you, if it was I or you. 

I tried a little carving, and there I hit the nail: 

Says I, "Now, Brother Bluster, you surely cannot fail." 

I made a set of chairs, such chairs you never see, 

They were made after a pattern my daddy left to me; 

It was a very ancient chair — Grandsire Adam used 

For all his little babies, and it was much abused. 

I took it all to pieces, and put it up anew 

With twine, and pins, and thread, and a little bit of glue. 

And when I had them finished, I tell you I was proud, 

I called my neighbors in, and showed them to the crowd. 

126 POEMS. 

I thought I had a fortune, that I would reach renown, 

Says I: I'll make my pile in this here little town. 

But down sat old friend Jones, of just three hundred 

Oh ! my, in what a hurry he laid upon the ground, 
'Twas in my chair he sat — just inside the front-door, 
And all the village laughed, to see him sprawling on the 

Says I, " By Jolly " — up I jumped just like a flying kite. 
I didn't know if I should laugh — I thought I'd like to 

But you see my daddy was a parson, and he was used to 

'Twas safest ne'er to fight, but always run away; 
For it might be I'd get licked, as I saw my " Sky-and-Tan," 
When he ran out into the street and chased a little man. 
So I thought I'd keep my temper, and only " bark it out," 
Or else I might get whipped and then " go up the spout." 
So what to do I did not know to make the kettle boil, 
For to keep my darling "Duckie" — I then resolved to 


One day as Duck and I were on our way to church, 

I thought the lc boys a laying round," would be left in the 

If something to amuse them on the Sabbath was not done, 
Either in the way of " biz " — or in the way of fun. 
So early the next morning I hastened into " town," 
To see a mighty bishop, of credit and renown — 
" Good-morning, 'Mr. Bishop' — I am a nice young man, 
I've come clean from the country, to see you if I can. 
There are a lot of fellows, a hanging all about, 
Upon the Sabbath morning — they'll all hang, I've no doubt, 
If something is not done to make them mend their ways; 
So I want you just to show me how a good man prays— 

POEMS. 127 

And then if you'll just give me an order to go preach, 
I'll call them in and try, how these loafers I can teach/' 
He gave it and I went, and there I took my stand, 
A valley in the mountains, and I looked o'er all the land ; 
I bade them all come to me, from hours of twelve to four, 
For my church was just the next unto the Methodist's 

I calculated as the crowd all came oat of that, 
I'd have the whole concern just so nice and pat. 
They came, I preached of Heaven, with a little bit of Hell, 
Maybe they didn't like it — I bet you it did tell. 
I soon was then invited to come to Brother Full, 
The Presbyterians were weak — and just give him a pull. 
This card it proved a tramp — the blue-lights liked me much, 
And said they only wished their church had a such. 
The Methodists grew jealous — so I resolved to show 
I didn't believe that one church would ever make it go, 
So I went to a " quarterly meeting " — maybe I didn't talk, 
I made their hairs stand on end, when they saw the Devil 

They invited me to serve again, and come to a Love Feast — 
Oh, didn't Duckie storm at this — " Jist the way with all 

you priests, 
The gals is all you're arter — I seen you peeking at their 

feets — 
Then looking right straight in their eyes, as they walked 

down the streets." 
Oh ! law ! what could I do— but to the feast I went, 
Oh! there, there, there was love unto my heart's con- 

The priest, old Father Eiley — he heard of my great fame, 
He said " he didn't know — but his flock grew very tame." 
/told him /would help him — just a little piece. 
I went down and tulked, but he took all the grease 

128 POEMS. 

As I and Duck must live, and Dobbin must have his hay, 

I found the Romish Church was not the place to stay 

So I resolved to keep the Tiscopalian walk — 

But now you better believe, I heard the strangest talk. 

My people — how I loved the dear, kind, good, sweet 

souls ! — 
Said, " they thought the Parson should attend to his own 

I asked them for some stamps — they laughed right in my 

face — 
They answered — " that the swift, they heard, always won 

the race ; 
That as I had been riding all around the course, 
They thought that I must surely be the real winning horse." 
I told them it was true, that I ahead carne in, 
But for all that, it did not bring Duck and I "the tin" 
I prayed, I preached — I sang and preached again, 
I found — oh, the hard-hearted curs — that it was all in vain. 
So with a heavy heart, I sent my resignation. 
I didn't believe they'd take it, but oh, my consternation ! 
I got a little note, all writ on scented paper, 
That the next Sabbath-day they'd just put out "my 

I told them, "Very well, I'd give them my last sermon." 
I bet you Duck and I sat down, and if we didn't write 

one — 
The church was full of Dutch, of Romans, Blue -lights,, all 
Of every name, with Methodists — but 'Piscopals was 

small — 
I told them, they were safe, that they should have salvation. 
Riches and joys forevermore, but 'Piscopals — damnation; 
That this was a big country, that I was a Johnny Bull — 
That I'd be hanged but I would preach, if the church was 

empty or full — 

POEMS. 129 

That I Lad thought the Old Boy had lived under the 

But now I knew 'inong 'Piscopals was the place where 

he was found. 


Sarmont by Ole Brudder Abram, Charleston, S. C, 
March, 1879. 

Darkies all, young and old, 
Now har de lesson I bill unfold. 
Old Ponipey's dead — all must die, 
Stop wringing yere hands — dun't yere cry. 
Old Ponipey, I say, died to-day, 
He's gone, I s'pose, de same ole way. 
Now, darkies, hear, ob all degree, 
And what he's been done and I'll do, you see. 
Dar was a garden in olden times, 
Whar Adam and Ebe had to walk der lines, 
Maybe you've hern how de Moccasin, he 
Stole behin' an old apple-tree ; 
Adam, he'd gwine to catch some eels, 
So he's out ob de way, an' ole Moccasin feels 
Koun' Mrs. Adam, and wants her to gwine 
Up into dat tree, and shake de limbs, 
For he can't climb, with his old stump tail, 
And he wun't try — for maybe he'd fail. 
'A thing what's forbid — be sure we does, 
So quick as a wink, up high she goes. 
" Shake away " — " shake away " — down they fall 

Apples and branches, Mrs. Adam and all. 
" Hullo," said a voice — " whar are you, Ebe ? " 
" Here, Adam/' said she, " wid ole Moccasin's lebe, 

130 POEMS. 

I jist flew'd up to de top ob dis tree, 
Now here's de apples, what beauties you see." 
a You naughty gal — ye sha'n't eat dat fruit, 
If yer do, I'll gie yer my f ut " — 
'Twas a great big heel, and a great big toe, 
Whareber it hit, it was bound to go. 
But eat she did, as gals will do, 
Took a great big bite, and Adam too; 
For she tole him it was the nicest thing 
That eber was set before a king. .... 
Out ob de garden dey was hustled straight 
Into de wilderness — locked de gate- 
Den dey was cold, wide de wind an' de shame, 
Dey made leaf -clothes, eat fish, flesh, and game. 
Soon little Cain come trottin' along, 
An' Abel soon arter — de same ole song; 
And as years cum and ages flew, 
De more der was — de more dey grew; 
But de boys hab a fight, how de wool flew; 
But dun't yer know, 'twould never do. 
"Well, Abel died, just as Pompey too. 
Adam was leader ob all you crew. 
Pompey was like him, jest his tee; 
In tellm' ob Adam, Fse tellin' ob he. 
A rare old fellow — fourscore and ten, 
I know'd it, breddren, by our ole hen, 
For she hatched out, when Pomp cum to town, 
I 'members it well, for ob great renown 
Was ole Aunt Dinah— a darter true 
Ob Adam and Ebe, and all dere crew. 
I tell you what ole Pompey was like, 
Like all his kind, be dey black o' white, 
Mens o' womens— chillen o' babes, 
All ob " ole Mock " dey be de slabes; 

POEMS. 131 

Dey may sing, and may dance, may talk, may preach, 
But dey neber will take what's out ob dere reach. 


Mt. McGregor, July i 2, 1885. 

The Sumter shot was heard, the Northern heart on fire 

From every valley, hill, and mount, rushed forth our sons, 
our sires. 

Mothers and maidens urged them on, w4th smiles they 
forward cheered. 

Alone, in silence flowed their tears, heart-riven, while thus 
they dared. 

Long weary days, weeks, months, aye, darksome years 

Came fast and fleeting, robed in grief and tears. 

Defeat and death, and all their bloody train: 

Chief after chief was tried, but still in vain; 

Till He who ever pities the shorn lamb, 

Raised one, our Grant, steadfast, brave, and calm; 

Patient in all things, ever firm and true, 

A wondrous change was wrought, our country born anew. 

Then none but he could hold the helm of State, 

In each new duty Grant was proved more great. 

The wide world hailed him; prostrate at his feet 

All nations fell, eager they sought to greet 

The master spirit of the age who bore 

The bark of Freedom to oppressed's shore. 

On Mount McGregor's heights, now famous for all time, 

Soothed by tender care of those most dear, a scene sub- 

He so generous, meek, so gentle, kind, yet firm, 

The wide world's conqueror bows to the great "I am"; 

132 POEMS. 

Succumbs to ills no human tongue can tell 

The bitterest trials ever man befel; 

Yet e'en in this he hears his Master's voice 

Of love, which leads him to rejoice. 

Crowned by his griefs more royally than by gems, 

Decked his victorious brow; the wide world's realms 

Are but as baubles, as he waits the call, 

Will yet declare him " Victor over all." 

July 15, 1885. 

Threescore years past, a boy, I coursed your fields 

Chasing butterflies and bees, culling flowers, their yield: 

In fancy painting what you yet might be, 

But never dreaming such rare sights to see. 

Where now your palaces crown your verdant hills, 

Or homes of splendor line your pearly rills, 

A simple cottage greeted my fond eye; 

Home of those loved best, your summer sky, 

With its soft air brought roses to the cheek 

Of her so fondly prized; in soul so strong, in health so 

Strength and good cheer to him, honored only the pure, 

the good; 
His God revered, and next his sire so loved. 
Sisters sweet and gentle, ambrosial made the scene; 
Brothers proud, gallant, in devotion crowned " our queen." 
So named by sire, as his loved deference shown, 
Taught all to bow to her, decked with affection's crown. 
From her we learned to rule by works of love, 
From him, worthy by virtues of our Master prove, 

POEMS. 133 

By all was true and noble and sincere; 

None great, but good; all not, "beware." 

By Randolph of Roanoke, here was I caressed; 

Here Lafayette, blessing with kind hand, pressed 

The head of scion of him, his pride. 

In camp and council — Yorktown, side by side, 

Here have I heard the charming voice of Clay; 

While Webster, gilded with prophetic lay, 

The future of our land, so great this day 

That all the world their tributes to her lay 

In honor, not in trembling at her feet, 

Memories of those we love in reverence greet. 

Here Lincoln with Moses' prophetic lore, 

Pictured in eloquence all yet in store, 

For such their country's faithful champions prove; 

From him I lived to earn confiding love. 

Honored and trusted by Seward, Stanton, Chase; 

Favored by Grant, the first of that great race, 

Called into service in our Master's cause, 

Who now in heaviest hours with illumined face, 

Gilds with its brightest hues this favored place. 

With all my faults, my failings, and my flaws, 

Called into service in our Master's cause. 

Teaching in forests, preaching in His courts ; 

Telling how dearly all our gifts were bought. 

I trast in duty to those dear ones gone 

And now are serving round our Father's throne, 

That teachings pure were never lost, but bore 

Me fruits I feast on — richer, I trust, in store. 


From the Boston Traveller. 

" Cromwell : A Tragedy in Five Acts. By the author of 
'Thomas A'Becket,' etc. Pamph. 12mo, pp. 124. Kew York: 
Dick & Fitzgerald. A noble work, and nobly planned and written. 
It proceeds on a just conception of Cromwell's character and actions, 
which alone ought to secure for it a favorable reception from intel- 
ligent readers, who must be tired of having the foremost man of all 
the English world drawn as a compound of ruffian and hypocrite, 
when there was neither hypocrisy nor ruffianism in his nature. 
Many passages in the drama show good powers of versification, and 
a high poetic spirit ; and the dramatic faculty of the author is ap- 
parent throughout his work. But why does he not devote himself 
to historical composition ? In that he would excel, and in a time, 
too, as remarkable for its historical productions, their weightiness 
and variety, as any that has been known since the Augustan age. 

''Our author has done in the dramatic form what Mr. Herbert 
did in the romantic form, but he is hampered by the very form he 
has adopted to present his hero's career and character in accordance 
with the well-established facts of historical criticism, which give to 
Cromwell one of the very highest places in the roll of great men. 
Even those who agree with Mr. Bissett, who has written the history 
of the English Commonwealth so well, must admit, that, after aX 
proper deductions have been made, there was much that was grand 
and majestic in the nature of Cromwell, that he was worthy of a 
crown, and that, as matters stood in 1654, it would have been wise 
in the English people had they placed an imperial crown on his 
head, so that a Cromwellian dynasty might have been established, 
and which would have ruled till this day, and far into the future. 
Taking the higher, and therefore the sounder, view of the Lord 
Protector's character, our dramatist follows him throughout his 
public life, from 1642, after he began to distinguish himself in 


Parliament, to the day when his great soul left the earth, a tempest 
of wind and rain that occurred at the time being connected in the 
public mind with his death." 

From the N. Y. Herald. 

"Thomas A'Becket, a tragedy in five acts, is just published in 
New York City by Dick & Fitzgerald. It is founded on the eccle- 
siastical assumptions and violent death of the man whose name it 
bears. In the main true to history, with touching allusions to Fair 
Rosamond, it introduces scenes of romance, love, and adventure. 
The style of the play is sprightly and often elegant. The nature of 
the subject, and the chaste and beautiful manner in which it is pre- 
sented, will, commend it to favor with all who appreciate artistic 
literature of this description, and will make it popular in exhibition 
on the stage. It will soon be produced at one of the leading theatres 
in that city." 

From the Evening Post 

" It is founded on the ecclesiastical assumptions and violent death 
of the man whose name it bears. The author has availed himself 
of this remarkable chapter of English history to make his play the 
vehicle of a rapid series of events, and to give it the interest which 
arises from crowded action." 

From the New- Yorker. 

" One of the best recent dramatic productions of American origin. 
The historical period has been evidently studied with care, the char- 
acters are clearly marked and well distributed, the action is decided 
and the language emphatic and not rarely high-toned and elegant. 
The author may therefore justly take an honorable place in the roll 
of American tragic writers." 

From the JV. Y. Times. 
" Some of the scenes arc exceedingly powerful. " 

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